F. H., Teddy Hamilton.
We had done the Paris-Berlin run in my racing-car the summer before.
If I hadn't known him so well, I might still have been in durance vile,
next door to jail, or securely inside. I had frequently dined with him
at the club during the summer, and he had offered to put me up; but as
I knew no one intimately but himself, I explained the futility of such
action. Besides, my horse wasn't a hunter; and I was riding him less
and less. It is no pleasure to go "parking" along the bridle-paths of
Central Park. For myself, I want a hill country and something like
forty miles, straight away; that's riding.
The fact that I knew no one but Teddy added zest to the inspiration
which had seized me. For I determined to attend that dance, happen
what might. It would be vastly more entertaining than a possibly dull
theatrical performance. (It was!)
I called for a messenger and despatched him to the nearest drug store
for a pack of playing-cards; and while I waited for his return I
casually glanced at the other diners. At my table--one of those long
marble-topped affairs by the wall--there was an old man reading a
paper, and the handsomest girl I had set eyes upon in a month of moons.
Sometimes the word handsome seems an inferior adjective.
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