At three o'clock De Gollyer entered from a heavy social performance,
raising his eyebrows in salute as others raise their hats, and slightly
dragging one leg behind. He was an American critic who was busily
engaged in discovering the talents of unrecognized geniuses of the
European provinces. When reproached with his migratory enthusiasm, he
would reply, with that quick, stiffening military click with which he
always delivered his _bons mots_:
"My boy, I never criticize American art. I can't afford to. I have too
many charming friends."
At four o'clock, which is the hour for the entree of those who escape
from their homes to fling themselves on the sanctuary of the club,
Rankin, the architect, arrived with Stibo, the fashionable painter of
fashionable women, who brought with him the atmosphere of pleasant soap
and an exclusive, smiling languor. A moment later a voice was heard from
the anteroom, saying:
"If any one telephones, I'm not in the club--any one at all. Do you
hear?"
Then Towsey, the decorator, appeared at the letterboxes in spats,
militant checks, high collar and a choker tie, which, yearning toward
his ears, gave him the appearance of one who had floundered up out of
his clothes for the third and last time.
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