Next to him sat Mason, from Chicago--a Westerner who had made his
money in a sudden rise in real estate, and who had moved to New
York to spend it: an out-spoken, common-sense, plain man, with
yellow eyebrows, yellow head partly bald, and his red face blue
specked with powder marks due to a premature blast in his mining
days. Mason couldn't tell the best Tiernan Madeira from corner-
grocery sherry, and preferred whiskey at any and all hours--and
what was more, never assumed for one instant that he could.
Then came Hodges, the immaculately dressed epicure--a pale, clean-
shaven, eye-glassed, sterilized kind of a man with a long neck and
skinny fingers, who boasted of having twenty-one different clarets
stored away under his sidewalk which were served to ordinary
guests, and five special vintages which he kept under lock and
key, and which were only uncorked for the elect, and who
invariably munched an olive before sampling the next wine. Then
followed such lesser lights, as Nixon, Leslie and the other
guests.
Pages:
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204