'"
The speaker paused to drain her cup and to fashion another cigarette,
her eyes dreaming upon far vistas.
"Ain't it fierce what music does to persons," she resumed. "Right off I
remembered the first time I'd heard that piece--in New York City four
years ago, in a restaurant after the theatre one night, where I'd gone
with Mrs. W.B. Hemingway and her husband. A grand, gay place it was,
with an orchestra. I picked at some untimely food and sipped a
highball--they wouldn't let a lady smoke there--and what interested me
was the folks that come in. Folks always do interest me something
amazing. Strange ones like that, I mean, where you set and try to
figure out all about 'em, what kind of homes they got, and how they act
when they ain't in a swell restaurant, and everything. Pretty soon comes
a couple to the table next us and, say, they was just plain Mr. and Mrs.
Mad. Both of 'em stall-fed. He was a large, shiny lad, with pink jowls
barbered to death and wicked looking, like a well-known clubman or
villain. The lady was spectacular and cynical, with a cold, thin nose
and eyes like a couple of glass marbles.
Pages:
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78