look. There’s your husband,” I said with relief.
She called to him. He was some distance away, but at the sound of her voice he looked up with an exaggeration of surprise which betrayed he was not surprised at all, and came moving toward us. As he recognized me his expression changed for a moment, but all the same he shook my hand warmly. “Well, we meet again,” he said broadly.
“Carlyle, I meant to ask you,” Lottie Munshin went on in a worried voice, “are you going to try that favorite-food diet?”
“I’ll give it a look,” he said in a bored tone, and caught me by the arm. “Lottie, I have something to talk over with Sergius. You’ll excuse us.” And with no more than that he steered me under a yucca tree, and we stood in the harsh shadow made by a flood lamp above the fronds.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
Once again I explained that I had been invited by Herman Teppis.
“Eitel, too?”
When I nodded, Munshin burst out, “I wouldn’t put it past Eitel to bring Elena here.” As he shook his head with indignation, I began to laugh.
“It’s a rotten party,” I said, “it needs some kicks.”
Munshin surprised me. A calculating expression came over his face and suddenly he looked like a very tough clown to me, a clown who in a quiet private way knew more than a few corners of the world. “It would be worth a lot of money to know what’s in H.T.’s head,” he muttered to himself, and walked away leaving me beside the yucca tree.
The party was becoming more active. People were going off by couples, or coming together at one center of interest or another. In a corner a game of charades was going on, the dance floor was nearly filled, a well-known comedian was performing for nothing, and an argument about a successful play almost killed the music of the rumba band. A drunk had managed to climb the boom which supported the papier-mâché camera, and he was quarreling with the cameraman who was trying to get him to go down. Nearby, his wife was laughing loudly. “Ronnie’s a flagpole sitter,” she kept announcing. The swimming instructor of the hotel was giving a diving exhibition in a roped-off portion of the pool, but only a few were watching her. I had a couple of drinks at the bar, and tried to work into one circle or another without success. Bored, I listened to a folk singer dressed like a leatherstocking, who sang old ballads in a quavery twang which could be heard above the dance orchestra. “Isn’t he talented?” a woman said nearby.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. A blond man whom I recognized as the tennis professional of the Yacht Club smiled at me. “Come on over,” he said, “somebody would like to meet you.” It turned out to be the movie star, Teddy Pope. He was a tall man with an open expression and dark-brown hair which fell in a cowlick over his forehead. When I came up with the tennis player, he grinned at me.
“Isn’t this party a dog?” Teddy Pope said.
We all smiled at one another. I could think of nothing to say. Beside Pope sat Marion Faye, looking small and bored. He only nodded at me.
“Do you know roulette?” the tennis player asked. “Teddy’s an
aficionado
.”
“I’ve been trying to get a system,” Teddy said. “I had a theory about the numbers. But mathematically it was too much for my low intelligence. I hired a statistician to try to figure it out.” He grinned at me again. “You a weight-lifter?” Teddy asked me.
“No. Should I be?”
This turned out to be very amusing. Pope and the tennis player and Marion Faye shared a long run of laughter. “I can bend an iron bar,” Teddy said to me. “That is, if it’s a slim enough iron bar. I just stay in weight-lifting to keep from getting fat. I’m getting so fat now.” He pinched his belly to give a demonstration and was able to show an excess of flesh no thicker than a pencil. “It’s disgusting.”
“You look in good shape,” I said uncomfortably.
“Oh, I’m
She called to him. He was some distance away, but at the sound of her voice he looked up with an exaggeration of surprise which betrayed he was not surprised at all, and came moving toward us. As he recognized me his expression changed for a moment, but all the same he shook my hand warmly. “Well, we meet again,” he said broadly.
“Carlyle, I meant to ask you,” Lottie Munshin went on in a worried voice, “are you going to try that favorite-food diet?”
“I’ll give it a look,” he said in a bored tone, and caught me by the arm. “Lottie, I have something to talk over with Sergius. You’ll excuse us.” And with no more than that he steered me under a yucca tree, and we stood in the harsh shadow made by a flood lamp above the fronds.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
Once again I explained that I had been invited by Herman Teppis.
“Eitel, too?”
When I nodded, Munshin burst out, “I wouldn’t put it past Eitel to bring Elena here.” As he shook his head with indignation, I began to laugh.
“It’s a rotten party,” I said, “it needs some kicks.”
Munshin surprised me. A calculating expression came over his face and suddenly he looked like a very tough clown to me, a clown who in a quiet private way knew more than a few corners of the world. “It would be worth a lot of money to know what’s in H.T.’s head,” he muttered to himself, and walked away leaving me beside the yucca tree.
The party was becoming more active. People were going off by couples, or coming together at one center of interest or another. In a corner a game of charades was going on, the dance floor was nearly filled, a well-known comedian was performing for nothing, and an argument about a successful play almost killed the music of the rumba band. A drunk had managed to climb the boom which supported the papier-mâché camera, and he was quarreling with the cameraman who was trying to get him to go down. Nearby, his wife was laughing loudly. “Ronnie’s a flagpole sitter,” she kept announcing. The swimming instructor of the hotel was giving a diving exhibition in a roped-off portion of the pool, but only a few were watching her. I had a couple of drinks at the bar, and tried to work into one circle or another without success. Bored, I listened to a folk singer dressed like a leatherstocking, who sang old ballads in a quavery twang which could be heard above the dance orchestra. “Isn’t he talented?” a woman said nearby.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. A blond man whom I recognized as the tennis professional of the Yacht Club smiled at me. “Come on over,” he said, “somebody would like to meet you.” It turned out to be the movie star, Teddy Pope. He was a tall man with an open expression and dark-brown hair which fell in a cowlick over his forehead. When I came up with the tennis player, he grinned at me.
“Isn’t this party a dog?” Teddy Pope said.
We all smiled at one another. I could think of nothing to say. Beside Pope sat Marion Faye, looking small and bored. He only nodded at me.
“Do you know roulette?” the tennis player asked. “Teddy’s an
aficionado
.”
“I’ve been trying to get a system,” Teddy said. “I had a theory about the numbers. But mathematically it was too much for my low intelligence. I hired a statistician to try to figure it out.” He grinned at me again. “You a weight-lifter?” Teddy asked me.
“No. Should I be?”
This turned out to be very amusing. Pope and the tennis player and Marion Faye shared a long run of laughter. “I can bend an iron bar,” Teddy said to me. “That is, if it’s a slim enough iron bar. I just stay in weight-lifting to keep from getting fat. I’m getting so fat now.” He pinched his belly to give a demonstration and was able to show an excess of flesh no thicker than a pencil. “It’s disgusting.”
“You look in good shape,” I said uncomfortably.
“Oh, I’m
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