"Biltmore. Call me up some day."

"I mean it," he assured her. "I will. We'll go to tea."

"So do I--Do."

A dark man cut in with intense formality.

"You don't remember me, do you?" he said gravely.

"I should say I do. Your name's Harlan."

"No-ope. Barlow."

"Well, I knew there were two syllables anyway. You're the boy that
played the ukulele so well up at Howard Marshall's house party.

"I played--but not--"

A man with prominent teeth cut in. Edith inhaled a slight cloud of
whiskey. She liked men to have had something to drink; they were so
much more cheerful, and appreciative and complimentary--much easier to
talk to.

"My name's Dean, Philip Dean," he said cheerfully. "You don't remember
me, I know, but you used to come up to New Haven with a fellow I
roomed with senior year, Gordon Sterrett."

Edith looked up quickly.