"Just the same, I'll
be glad to see him."
He sought out the Californian, found him deep in talk with Guy Mallory
of The Ledger, who had come in late, gave him hearty greeting, and
looked about for Camilla Van Arsdale. She was supping in the center of a
curiously assorted group, part of whom remembered the old romance of her
life, and part of whom had identified her, by some chance, as Royce
Melvin, the composer. All of them were paying court to her charm and
intelligence. She made a place beside herself for Banneker.
"We've been discussing The Patriot, Ban," she said, "and Mr. Gaines has
embalmed you, as an editorial writer, in the amber of one of his best
epigrams."
The Great Gaines made a deprecating gesture. "My little efforts always
sound better when I'm not present," he protested.
"To be the subject of any Gaines epigram, however stinging, is fame in
itself," said Banneker.
"And no sting in this one. 'Attic salt and American pep,'" she quoted.
"Isn't it truly spicy?"
Banneker bowed with half-mocking appreciation. "I fancy, though, that
Mr. Gaines prefers his journalistic egg more _au naturel_."
"Sometimes," admitted the most famous of magazine editors, "I could
dispense with some of the pep."
"I like the pep, too, Ban.
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