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Ferriday smiled benignly and said to the waiter: "You might bring us een boo-tay de Bollinger Numero er katter vang kanz." He knew that the French for ninety-five was four-twenties-fifteen, but the waiter could not understand till he placed his finger on the number with his best French accent. He saved himself from collapse by a stern post-dictum: "Remember, it's the vintage of nineteen hundred.
Kedzie revolted at this, but she had no answer. Ferriday saw the papers folded open at the society pages. He stared at them, at her, then sniffed: "So that's your new ambition!" "What?" "'In the Social World! You want to get in with that gang, eh? Has Dyckman asked you to marry him?" "Of course not." "Well, if he does, don't ever let him take you into his own set." "What do you mean by that?"
The door-bell rang, and she did not wait for her maid, but answered it in angry person. Ferriday beamed on her. "Oh, it's you. You didn't stop to ask if I was visible. You just came right on up, didn't you?" He whispered: "Pardon me. Somebody else is here. Exit laughingly!" That was insult on insult. "Stop it! There is not anybody else. Come back. What do you want?"
Ferriday, and thank you ever so much for the perfectly lovely evening." "It has been l-l-lovely. Goo-ood night!" The car swept away and made a big turn. She saw Ferriday marching grandiosely along the street, with his head bared to the cool moonlight. She settled back and snuggled into the cushions, imagining the car her very own.
She remembered how he had hung over the table that far-away morning and recommended ham 'n'eggs. His dirty shirt-sleeves and his grin came back to her now. The gruesome Banquo reminded her so vividly of her early guilt of plebeiancy that she shivered. The alert Ferriday noticed it and called: "Have that window closed at once. There's an infernal draught here."
Ferriday was one of those terrifying persons who know, or pretend to know, curious secrets about restaurants and their resources. Wine-cellars and the individualities of chefs had no terror for him so far as she could see. He expressed contempt for apparent commonplaces that Kedzie had never heard of. He used French words with an accent that Kedzie supposed to be perfect.
Dyckman hastened to say: "Of course, money is no object to us...." "Nor to me," Ferriday said, coldly. Dyckman went on as if he had not heard: "... Except that the more the show costs the less there is for the charity." "I should be glad to donate my services to the cause," said Ferriday, who could be magnificent. "Three cheers for you!" said Dyckman, who could not.
Wouldn't it be just her luck to meet her first millionaire after he had become an ex-? But Dyckman said that he had come to try and engage Mr. Ferriday, and that sounded so splendid to Kedzie that she snuggled closer. Ordinarily when a woman cowers under the eaves of a man's shoulder it is taken for a signal for amiabilities to begin.
She found that ice-water was a good antidote for champagne. When Ferriday sharply ordered the waiter to look to her glass she shook her head. When he finished the bottle and the waiter put it mouth down in the ice as an eloquent reminder Ferriday accepted the challenge and ordered another bottle. He was just thickened of tongue enough to say "boddle." Kedzie spoke, quickly: "Please, no.
Already she was a little disappointed in Ferriday. He was a great man, but he had his fault, and she had found him out. If he were going to be of use to her she must snub that vinous phase at once. The cool air outside seemed to gratify Ferriday and he took off his hat while the carriage-starter whistled up his car. Now Kedzie said: "Please, Mr. Ferriday, just put me in a taxicab." "Nonsense!
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