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dances, and now employed in cooling non-alcoholic champagne
among the labyrinthine cellars of the Plaza Hotel.
"Nick," he said, "what's happened to everything?"
"Dead," Nick said.
"Make me a whiskey sour." Anson handed a pint bottle over the
counter. "Nick, the girls are different; I had a little girl in Brooklyn
and she got married last week without letting me know."
"That a fact? Ha-ha-ha," responded Nick diplomatically.
"Slipped it over on you."
"Absolutely," said Anson. "And I was out with her the night
before."
"Ha-ha-ha," said Nick, "ha-ha-ha!"
"Do you remember the wedding, Nick, in Hot Springs where I
had the waiters and the musicians singing 'God save the King'?"
"Now where was that, Mr.. Hunter?" Nick concentrated
doubtfully. "Seems to me that was -"
"Next time they were back for more, and I began to wonder
how much I'd paid them," continued Anson.
"- seems to me that was at Mr.. Trenholm's wedding."
"Don't know him," said Anson decisively. He was offended that
a strange name should intrude upon his reminiscences; Nick
perceived this.
"Na-aw-" he admitted, "I ought to know that. It was one of
your crowd-Brakins ... Baker -"
"Bicker Baker," said Anson responsively. "They put me in a
hearse after it was over and covered me up with flowers and drove me
away."
"Ha-ha-ha," said Nick. "Ha-ha-ha."
Nick's simulation of the old family servant paled presently and
Anson went up-stairs to the lobby. He looked around – his eyes met
the glance of an unfamiliar clerk at the desk, then fell upon a flower
from the morning's marriage hesitating in the mouth of a brass
cuspidor. He went out and walked slowly toward the blood-red sun
over Columbus Circle. Suddenly he turned around and, retracing his
steps to the Plaza, immured himself in a telephone-booth.
Later he said that he tried to get me three times that afternoon,
that he tried every one who might be in New York – men and girls he
had not seen for years, an artist's model of his college days whose
faded number was still in his address book - Central told him that