Wasn't Mr. Gilson contrasting Saxton's silk shirt with Milt's darned

cotton covering, and in light of that contrast chuckling at Milt's boast

and Saxton's modesty? Milt became overheated. His scalp prickled and his

shoulder-blades were damp. As Saxton turned from him, and crooned to

Claire, "More ham, honey?" Milt hated himself. He was in much of the

dramatic but undesirable position of a man in pajamas, not very good

pajamas, who has been locked out in the hotel corridor by the slamming

of his door. He was in the frame of mind of a mongrel, of a real

Boys'-Dog, at a Madison Square dog-show. He had a faint shrewd suspicion

of Saxton's game. But what could he do about it?

He felt even more out of place when the family forgot him and talked

about people of whom he had never heard.

He sat alone on an extremely distant desert isle and ate cold ham and

wished he were in Schoenstrom.

Claire had recovered her power of speech. She seemed to be trying to

bring him into the conversation, so that the family might appreciate

him.

She hesitated, and thought with creased brows, and brought out, "Uh, uh,

oh---- Oh Milt: How much is gas selling at now?"...

* * * * * Milt left that charming and intimate supper-party at nine. He said, "Got

to work on--on my analytical geometry," as though it was a lie; and he

threw "Good night" at Saxton as though he hated his kind, good

benefactor; and when he tried to be gracious to Mrs. Gilson the best he

could get out was, "Thanks f' inviting me." They expansively saw him to

the door. Just as he thought that he had escaped, Saxton begged, "Oh,

Daggett, I was arguing with a chap---- What color are Holstein-Friesian

cattle? Red?"

"Black and white," Milt said eagerly.

He heard Mrs. Gilson giggle.

He stood on the terrace wiping his forehead and, without the least

struggle, finally and irretrievably admitting that he would never see

Claire Boltwood or any of her friends again. Not--never!

* * * * * He had received from Mrs. Gilson a note inviting him to share their box

at the first night of a three-night Opera Season. He had spent half a

day in trying to think of a courteously rude way of declining.

A straggly little girl came up from the candy-shop below his room,

demanding, "Say, are you Mr. Daggett? Say, there's some woman wants to

talk to you on our telephone. Say, tell them we ain't supposed to be no

messenger-office. You ain't supposed to call no upstairs people on our

telephone. We ain't supposed to leave the store and go trotting all over

town to---- Gee, a nickel, gee, thank you, don't mind what ma says,

she's always kicking."

On the telephone, he heard Claire's voice in an agitated, "Milt! Meet me

down-town, at the Imperial Motion Picture Theater, right away. Something

I've got to tell you. I'll be in the lobby. Hurry!"




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