Young People\'s Pride
I It is one of Johnny Chipman's parties at the Harlequin Club, and as usual the people the other people have been asked to meet are late and as usual Johnny is looking hesitatingly around at those already collected with the nervous kindliness of an absent-minded menagerie-trainer who is trying to make a happy family out of a wombat, a porcupine, and two small Scotch terriers because they are all very nice and he likes them all and he can't quite remember at the moment just where he got hold of any of them. This evening he has been making an omelet of youngest. K. Ricky French, the youngest Harvard playwright to learn the tricks of C43, a Boston exquisite, impeccably correct from his club tie to the small gold animal on his watch-chain, is almost coming to blows with Slade Wilson, the youngest San Francisco cartoonist to be tempted East by a big paper and still so new to New York that no matter where he tries to take the subway, he always finds himself buried under Times Square, over a question as to whether La Perouse or Foyot's has the best _hors-d'oeuvres_ in Paris. The conflict is taking place across Johnny's knees, both of which are being used for emphasis by the disputants till he is nearly mashed like a
From the dog, Donaldson lifted his eyes to Barstow's back. They were
dark brown eyes, set deep below a square forehead. His head, too, was
square and drooped a bit between loose shoulders. He smiled to himself
at some passing thought and the smile cast a pleasant softness over
features which at rest appeared rather angular and decidedly intense.
The mouth was large and the irregular teeth were white as a hound's.
His black hair was cut short and at the temples was turning gray,
although he had not yet reached thirty. It was an eager face, a strong
face. It hardened to granite over life in the abstract and softened to
the feminine before concrete examples of it.
"It is a bit of a paradox," he resumed, "that so harmless a creature as
you, Barstow, should stumble upon so deadly an agent. What do you call
it?"
"I have n't reported it yet. I don't know as I care to have my name
coupled with it in these days of newspaper notoriety--even though it
may be my one bid for fame."
Donaldson drew a package of Durham from his pocket and fumbled around
until he found a loose paper. He deftly rolled a cigarette, his long
fingers moving with the dexterity of a pianist. He smoked a moment in
silence, exhaling the smoke thoughtfully with his eyes towards the
ceiling. The dog, his neck outstretched on Donaldson's knee, blinked
sleepily across the room at his master. The gas, blown about by drafts
I It is one of Johnny Chipman's parties at the Harlequin Club, and as usual the people the other people have been asked to meet are late and as usual Johnny is looking hesitatingly around at those already collected with the nervous kindliness of an absent-minded menagerie-trainer who is trying to make a happy family out of a wombat, a porcupine, and two small Scotch terriers because they are all very nice and he likes them all and he can't quite remember at the moment just where he got hold of any of them. This evening he has been making an omelet of youngest. K. Ricky French, the youngest Harvard playwright to learn the tricks of C43, a Boston exquisite, impeccably correct from his club tie to the small gold animal on his watch-chain, is almost coming to blows with Slade Wilson, the youngest San Francisco cartoonist to be tempted East by a big paper and still so new to New York that no matter where he tries to take the subway, he always finds himself buried under Times Square, over a question as to whether La Perouse or Foyot's has the best _hors-d'oeuvres_ in Paris. The conflict is taking place across Johnny's knees, both of which are being used for emphasis by the disputants till he is nearly mashed like a