Wasn't Mr. Gilson contrasting Saxton's silk shirt with Milt's darned
cotton covering, and in light of that contrast chuckling at Milt's boast
and Saxton's modesty? Milt became overheated. His scalp prickled and his
shoulder-blades were damp. As Saxton turned from him, and crooned to
Claire, "More ham, honey?" Milt hated himself. He was in much of the
dramatic but undesirable position of a man in pajamas, not very good
pajamas, who has been locked out in the hotel corridor by the slamming
of his door. He was in the frame of mind of a mongrel, of a real
Boys'-Dog, at a Madison Square dog-show. He had a faint shrewd suspicion
of Saxton's game. But what could he do about it?
He felt even more out of place when the family forgot him and talked
about people of whom he had never heard.
He sat alone on an extremely distant desert isle and ate cold ham and
wished he were in Schoenstrom.
Claire had recovered her power of speech. She seemed to be trying to
bring him into the conversation, so that the family might appreciate
him.
She hesitated, and thought with creased brows, and brought out, "Uh, uh,
oh---- Oh Milt: How much is gas selling at now?"...
* * * * * Milt left that charming and intimate supper-party at nine. He said, "Got
to work on--on my analytical geometry," as though it was a lie; and he
threw "Good night" at Saxton as though he hated his kind, good
benefactor; and when he tried to be gracious to Mrs. Gilson the best he
could get out was, "Thanks f' inviting me." They expansively saw him to
the door. Just as he thought that he had escaped, Saxton begged, "Oh,
Daggett, I was arguing with a chap---- What color are Holstein-Friesian
cattle? Red?"
"Black and white," Milt said eagerly.
He heard Mrs. Gilson giggle.
He stood on the terrace wiping his forehead and, without the least
struggle, finally and irretrievably admitting that he would never see
Claire Boltwood or any of her friends again. Not--never!
* * * * * He had received from Mrs. Gilson a note inviting him to share their box
at the first night of a three-night Opera Season. He had spent half a
day in trying to think of a courteously rude way of declining.
A straggly little girl came up from the candy-shop below his room,
demanding, "Say, are you Mr. Daggett? Say, there's some woman wants to
talk to you on our telephone. Say, tell them we ain't supposed to be no
messenger-office. You ain't supposed to call no upstairs people on our
telephone. We ain't supposed to leave the store and go trotting all over
town to---- Gee, a nickel, gee, thank you, don't mind what ma says,
she's always kicking."
On the telephone, he heard Claire's voice in an agitated, "Milt! Meet me
down-town, at the Imperial Motion Picture Theater, right away. Something
I've got to tell you. I'll be in the lobby. Hurry!"