establishment of a new Italian restaurant in 11th Street, or the calling
away of the fourth-floor-rear by the death of an uncle who would perhaps
leave him money. To this sedate assemblage descended one crisp December
morning young Wickert, clad in the natty outline of a new Bernholz suit,
and obviously swollen with tidings.

"Whaddya know about the latest?" he flung forth upon the coffee-scented
air.

"The latest" in young Wickert's compendium of speech might be the
garments adorning his trim person, the current song-hit of a vaudeville
to which he had recently contributed his critical attention, or some
tidbit of purely local gossip. Hainer, the plump and elderly accountant,
opined that Wickert had received an augmentation of salary, and got an
austere frown for his sally. Evidently Wickert deemed his news to be of
special import; he was quite bloated, conversationally. He now dallied
with it.

"Since when have you been taking in disguised millionaires, Mrs.
Brashear?"

The presiding genius of the house, divided between professional
resentment at even so remotely slurring an implication (for was not the
Grove Street house good enough for any millionaire, undisguised!) and
human curiosity, requested an explanation.

"I was in Sherry's restaurant last night," said the offhand Wickert.

"I didn't read about any fire there," said the jocose Hainer, pointing
his sally with a wink at Lambert, the art-student.