"
"I met you up at--" His voice trailed disconsolately off as a man with
very fair hair cut in. Edith murmured a conventional "Thanks,
loads--cut in later," to the _inconnu_.
The very fair man insisted on shaking hands enthusiastically. She
placed him as one of the numerous Jims of her acquaintance--last name
a mystery. She remembered even that he had a peculiar rhythm in
dancing and found as they started that she was right.
"Going to be here long?" he breathed confidentially.
She leaned back and looked up at him.
"Couple of weeks."
"Where are you?"
"Biltmore. Call me up some day."
"I mean it," he assured her. "I will. We'll go to tea."
"So do I--Do."
A dark man cut in with intense formality.
"You don't remember me, do you?" he said gravely.
"I should say I do. Your name's Harlan."
"No-ope. Barlow."
"Well, I knew there were two syllables anyway. You're the boy that
played the ukulele so well up at Howard Marshall's house party.
"I played--but not--"
A man with prominent teeth cut in. Edith inhaled a slight cloud of
whiskey. She liked men to have had something to drink; they were so
much more cheerful, and appreciative and complimentary--much easier to
talk to.
"My name's Dean, Philip Dean," he said cheerfully. "You don't remember
me, I know, but you used to come up to New Haven with a fellow I
roomed with senior year, Gordon Sterrett.
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