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Updated: June 21, 2025
Angrily the old man turned tail, collided with Paliser, apologised furiously, damning him beneath his breath, damning Dunwoodie, damning the house committee, damning the club. "Are you to dine here?" Jones asked Ogston, who swore gently, declaring that, worse luck, he was due at his aunt's. "But you are," Jones told Lennox. "Come on and I'll make your hair stand on end."
In greeting Lennox he seemed to be in a pleasant dream. The crowd swallowed him. "Who was that?" Mrs. Austen enquired. "Ten Eyck Jones." "The writer?" asked this lady, who liked novels, but who preferred to live them. Meanwhile Paliser was talking to Cassy Cara and the Tamburini. The latter listened idly, with her evil smile. Yet Paliser's name was very evocative.
"Who was the damsel I saw you making up to in the Park the other day?" Paliser turned to her. "I have forgotten." "I don't wonder. You seemed to have lost your head." "Probably then because it wasn't you." "Fiddlesticks! You looked as though you could cut your throat for her. Didn't you feel that way? I am sure you did." "You must be thinking of Cantillon. That's the way he looks at you.
"What else could you expect of that Hun?" Paliser concluded. "A Hun!" Cassy exclaimed. "Why he is a Romanov." "No more than you are," Paliser replied. "The last of the Romanovs married Catherine the Greater. There the breed ended. Paul, who followed and who married a German drab, was Catherine's son but not her husband's.
Precision gave him a kick. Wouldn't stand if he did. Deeply he swore. The millions were gone. Hands down, without a struggle, the Paliser estate was rooked. No fault of his though, and mechanically he adjusted that hat. Damn her! In the street below, superbly, with sidereal indifference, the sun shone down on the imbecile activities of man.
"Never heard of her," said Cassy, entirely unaware that no one else ever had either. "She was at the Bazaar the other night and admired your singing." "Very good of her I am sure," replied Cassy, who, a born anarchist and by the same token a born autocrat, loathed condescension. Paliser corrected it. "No, not good appreciative. She wants you to sing at her house.
"Grand Central!" Cassy, abandoning Paliser there, went on to Fifth Avenue, where, with the protection of cross-town traffic, she attempted to get to the other side. But half-way, she saw, or thought she saw, the young woman to whom a certain person was engaged. She turned to look, backed into the traffic-sign and put it in motion. Instantly motors were careering at each other.
Couldn't you both dine with me here?" The former prima donna wiped her loose mouth. She could, she would, and she said so. Paliser put the flowers before Cassy. "Le parlate d'amor," the ex-diva began and, slightly for a moment, her deep voice mounted. Cassy turned on her. "You're an imbecile." With an uplift of the chin a family habit Paliser summoned the waiter.
It's about young Paliser. There may be something in it for you. I'm from Headquarters." The captain coughed. "It's awful. I can't tell you anything though. He wasn't here often. Doubt if I've seen him in a week." He looked about. The slashed youths were edging up. "Come in here." In an adjoining room, he took a chair, waved politely at another, coughed again and resumed.
Then, in a moment, as Lennox entered the booth, Margaret joined her mother and looked at the girl. "What is she singing?" Paliser covered her with his eyes. "Verdi's Segreto per esser felice the secret of happiness. Such a simple secret too." "Yes?" Margaret absently returned. She was looking now at the booth. Quite as vaguely she added: "In what does it consist?"
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