a Russian Jew who had been a police spy in Poland and a hotel
proprietor in Mogador, where he called himself Turkish and
married a renegade Armenian. He had a nose like a sickle and a
neck like a blue-gum nigger. He hoped that the place would
degenerate into a Bohemian restaurant where liberal clergymen
would think they were slumming, and barbers would think they
were entering society, so he always wore a _fez_ and talked bad
Arabic. He was local color, atmosphere, Bohemian flavor. Mr.
Wrenn murmured to Theresa:

"Say, do you see that man? He's Signor Gouroff, the owner.
I've talked to him a lot of times. Ain't he great! Golly! look
at that beak of his. Don't he make you think of _kiosks_ and
_hyrems_ and stuff? Gee! What does he make you think--"

"He's got on a dirty collar.... That waiter's awful slow....
Would you please be so kind and pour me another glass of water?"

But when she reached the honied _bourma_ she grew tolerant toward
Mr. Wrenn. She had two cups of cocoa and felt fat about the
eyes and affectionate. She had mentioned that there were good
shows in town. Now she resumed:

"Have you been to `The Gold Brick' yet?"

"No, I--uh--I don't go to the theater much."

"Gwendolyn Muzzy was telling me that this was the funniest show
she'd ever seen. Tells how two confidence men fooled one of
those terrible little jay towns. Shows all the funny people,