“Surely!” he remarked, with an expression of worried appeal. "Well?" he whispered. “Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. ‘What?’ Roding snapped, coming quickly to tower above the window seat. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. I've only a Chinaman who is studying under me; but he's a good sport and will help us out during the crisis.
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