Evidently Wickert deemed his news to be of
special import; he was quite bloated, conversationally. He now dallied
with it.
"Since when have you been taking in disguised millionaires, Mrs.
Brashear?"
The presiding genius of the house, divided between professional
resentment at even so remotely slurring an implication (for was not the
Grove Street house good enough for any millionaire, undisguised!) and
human curiosity, requested an explanation.
"I was in Sherry's restaurant last night," said the offhand Wickert.
"I didn't read about any fire there," said the jocose Hainer, pointing
his sally with a wink at Lambert, the art-student.
Wickert ignored the gibe. Such was the greatness of his tidings that he
could afford to.
"Our firm was giving a banquet to some buyers and big folks in the
trade. Private room upstairs; music, flowers, champagne by the case. We
do things in style when we do 'em. They sent me up after hours with an
important message to our Mr. Webler; he was in charge of arrangements."
"Been promoted to be messenger, ay?" put in Mr. Hainer, chuckling.
"When I came downstairs," continued the other with only a venomous
glance toward the seat of the scorner, "I thought to myself what's the
matter with taking a look at the swells feeding in the big restaurant.
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