"So have I, come to think of it." Rand stole a glance at his wrist-watch.
It was nine five; he was wishing Stephen Gresham would put in an
appearance.
MacBride and Trehearne joined Pierre and the girls in showing him
Gresham's collection; evidently they all knew it almost as well as their
own. After a while, Irene Gresham ushered in Philip Cabot. He, too, was
past middle age, with prematurely white hair and a thin, scholarly face.
According to Hollywood type-casting, he might have been a professor, or a
judge, or a Boston Brahmin, but never a stockbroker.
Irene Gresham wanted to know what everybody wanted to drink. Rand wanted
Bourbon and plain water; MacBride voted for Jamaica rum; Trehearne and
Cabot favored brandy and soda, and Pierre and the girls wanted Bacardi
and Coca-Cola.
"And Stephen'll want rye and soda, when he gets here," Irene said. "Come
on, girls; let's rustle up the drinks."
Before they returned, Stephen Gresham came in, lighting a cigar. It was
just nine twenty-two.
"Well, I see everybody's here," he said. "No; where's Karen?"
Pierre told him. A few minutes later the women returned, carrying bottles
and glasses; when the flurry of drink-mixing had subsided, they all sat
down.
Pages:
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117