The solid old shoes with their wide buckles were gone.
In their place he wore narrow slippers of patent leather
of which he seemed inordinately proud, for he had stuck
his feet up ostentatiously on the seat opposite. His eyes
followed my glance toward his shoes.

"For the fox-trot," he said. "The old ones were no good.
Have a cigarette? These are Armenian, or would you prefer
a Honolulan or a Nigerian? Now," he resumed, when we had
lighted our cigarettes, "what would you like to do first?
Dance the tango? Hear some Hawaiian music, drink cocktails,
or what?"

"Why, what I should like most of all, Father
Knickerbocker--"

But he interrupted me.

"There's a devilish fine woman! Look, the tall blonde
one! Give me blondes every time!" Here he smacked his
lips. "By gad, sir, the women in this town seem to get
finer every century. What were you saying?"

"Why, Father Knickerbocker," I began, but he interrupted
me again.

"My dear fellow," he said. "May I ask you not to call me
_Father_ Knickerbocker?"

"But I thought you were so old," I said humbly.