Muriel and Rachael went into soft and purring ecstasies
of enthusiasm. Mrs. Gilbert blinked and beamed.
With an air of casualness Dick broke in with a question:
“Who is this fellow Bloeckman, Gloria?”
Scenting a faint hostility, Gloria turned to him.
“Joseph Bloeckman? He’s the moving
picture man. Vice-president of ’Films Par
Excellence.’ He and father do a lot of business.”
“Oh!”
“Well, will you all come?”
They would all come. A date was arranged within
the week. Dick rose, adjusted hat, coat, and
muffler, and gave out a general smile.
“By-by,” said Muriel, waving her hand
gaily, “call me up some time.”
Richard Caramel blushed for her.
It was Monday and Anthony took Geraldine Burke to
luncheon at the Beaux Arts—afterward they
went up to his apartment and he wheeled out the little
rolling-table that held his supply of liquor, selecting
vermouth, gin, and absinthe for a proper stimulant.
Geraldine Burke, usher at Keith’s, had been
an amusement of several months. She demanded
so little that he liked her, for since a lamentable
affair with a debutante the preceding summer, when
he had discovered that after half a dozen kisses a
proposal was expected, he had been wary of girls of
his own class. It was only too easy to turn a
critical eye on their imperfections: some physical
harshness or a general lack of personal delicacy—but
a girl who was usher at Keith’s was approached
with a different attitude. One could tolerate
qualities in an intimate valet that would be unforgivable
in a mere acquaintance on one’s social level.
Geraldine, curled up at the foot of the lounge, considered
him with narrow slanting eyes.
“You drink all the time, don’t you?”
she said suddenly.
“Why, I suppose so,” replied Anthony in
some surprise. “Don’t you?”
“Nope. I go on parties sometimes—you
know, about once a week, but I only take two or three
drinks. You and your friends keep on drinking
all the time. I should think you’d ruin
your health.”
Anthony was somewhat touched.
“Why, aren’t you sweet to worry about
me!”
“Well, I do.”
“I don’t drink so very much,” he
declared. “Last month I didn’t touch
a drop for three weeks. And I only get really
tight about once a week.”
“But you have something to drink every day and
you’re only twenty-five. Haven’t
you any ambition? Think what you’ll be at
forty?”
“I sincerely trust that I won’t live that
long.”
She clicked her tongue with her teeth.
“You cra-azy!” she said as he mixed another
cocktail—and then: “Are you
any relation to Adam Patch?”
“Yes, he’s my grandfather.”
“Really?” She was obviously thrilled.
“Absolutely.”
