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whom he knew slightly; he became righteous about paying his share of the
expense and insisted in a loud voice on arranging everything then and
there to the amusement of the tables around him....
Some one mentioned that a famous cabaret star was at the next table,
so Amory rose and, approaching gallantly, introduced himself... this
involved him in an argument, first with her escort and then with the
headwaiter--Amory's attitude being a lofty and exaggerated courtesy...
he consented, after being confronted with irrefutable logic, to being
led back to his own table.
"Decided to commit suicide," he announced suddenly.
"When? Next year?"
"Now. To-morrow morning. Going to take a room at the Commodore, get into
a hot bath and open a vein."
"He's getting morbid!"
"You need another rye, old boy!"
"We'll all talk it over to-morrow."
But Amory was not to be dissuaded, from argument at least.
"Did you ever get that way?" he demanded confidentially fortaccio.
"My chronic state."
This provoked discussion. One man said that he got so depressed
sometimes that he seriously considered it. Another agreed that there was
nothing to live for. "Captain Corn," who had somehow rejoined the party,
said that in his opinion it was when one's health was bad that one felt
that way most. Amory's suggestion was that they should each order a
Bronx, mix broken glass in it, and drink it off. To his relief no one
applauded the idea, so having finished his high-ball, he balanced his
chin in his hand and his elbow on the table--a most delicate, scarcely
noticeable sleeping position, he assured himself--and went into a deep
He was awakened by a woman clinging to him, a pretty woman, with brown,
disarranged hair and dark blue eyes.
"Take me home!" she cried.
"Hello!" said Amory, blinking.
"I like you," she announced tenderly.
"I like you too."
He noticed that there was a noisy man in the background and that one of
his party was arguing with him.
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