Mabel nodded her head slowly; her breast was heaving.
There was a pause for a moment. It was broken by Benton, who sat facing
the door.
"There's The Scroyle!" he exclaimed. "Who's that with him?"
"Oh, that's Mrs. Page," said Elsie, narrowing her eyes.
Gay P. Summer, jimp and immaculate, with trousers creased and shiny
shoes, with the latest style in mouse-colored hats, entered with his
lady, and looked jauntily about for a good table. He found one near the
Pintos. Having seated his partner, he leaned over toward her and
whispered for a few minutes. By her immediate look in their direction,
there was no doubt that he was informing her of the fame of the coterie
at the central table, and boasting of his acquaintance with it. Then he
arose.
"By Jove!" said Benton. "He's coming over here! What d'you think of
that!"
Gay approached dapperly, bowed to all, and laid his hand on the back of
Dougal's chair. Dougal leaned forward and avoided him.
"Good evening, everybody," said Gay affably. "The gang is still alive,
I see!" He smiled inclusively. Nobody answered.
"I should think you'd want to find another restaurant, now," he
continued. "This place is getting altogether too dead. It's only a
show place now. All the life seems to have gone out of it."
"That's right," Maxim murmured.
"Funny how places run down,"--Gay was forcing it hard--"why, I know
several people who won't come here any more. It isn't like it used to
be, anyway, nowadays." He grew a little nervous at his apathetic
reception, but went on. "Say, I've got a lady over there I'd like to
introduce to you people. She's a corker. Suppose I bring her over.
You need another girl."