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Updated: May 19, 2025
Been quite a while since I've had a good chance to talk to you, Doane. I was, uh Sorry you didn't turn up at the last class-dinner." "Oh-thanks." "How's the unions coming? Going to run for mayor again?" Doane seemed restless. He was fingering the pages of his book. He said "I might" as though it didn't mean anything in particular, and he smiled.
He nervously awaited his university class-dinner and an evening of furious intimacy with such social leaders as Charles McKelvey the millionaire contractor, Max Kruger the banker, Irving Tate the tool-manufacturer, and Adelbert Dobson the fashionable interior decorator. All the week before the class-dinner he thought of them. "No reason why we shouldn't become real chummy now!"
At the class-dinner he had seen poor Overbrook, in a shiny blue serge business-suit, being diffident in a corner with three other failures. He had gone over and been cordial: "Why, hello, young Ed! I hear you're writing all the insurance in Dorchester now. Bully work!" They recalled the good old days when Overbrook used to write poetry.
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