The dining-room was of the expected proportions, with thirty or forty people, among whom Finch found himself searching faces in vain for a likeness to that of Terry-Tiridat. He was paired off with Mrs. Hyperion Weems, one of those small plump blondes who are forever in such a state of excited mental disorganization as to be unable to complete any sentence before beginning the next.
"Have you joined the Pegasus?" she asked him over the soup. "We are all so happy here, but it is uncivilized to make remarks about people you don't know, in spite of what Aïda says."
Finch raised his voice a trifle. "Oh, I assure you I would rather not know people too well before talking about them. The closer the acquaintance with most people, the less civilized the remarks one makes about them."
"Oh, Mister Finch! No one would want to say anything uncivilized about Marmaduke." She indicated a darkly handsome individual across the table, who looked rather as though he had been made up to play the part of a movie actor. "He's always so handsome and clever, though I do always say she shouldn't have poisoned her husband, even if they couldn't prove it and let her off anyway because putting it in his shaving cream was so original."
"Women always consider good looks the highest effort of the mind," said Finch without paying any attention to the last part of her statement.
The handsome Marmaduke looked up. "And so it is, for them," he said. "Nothing Sonia can say, for example, is half as eloquent as her shoulders." He glanced toward the chatalaine.
So there was competition. Finch looked at Sonia. "A poor compliment. Such shoulders are a natural gift, like her voice, not an achievement, like her singing."
There was a patter of laughter, words were repeated and the Colonel beamed from his end of the table as waiters poured an excellent Moselle and replaced the soup with a filet of whitefish, which gave off the fascinating aroma of good cookery.
"On guard, Chevalier," said the singer, leaning toward him. "Richard, he will t'ink you flirt with me."
Finch sampled his wine. "Oh, I shan't worry. He is wise enough to know that the men women flirt with in public are never dangerous." This was going well, he told himself.
"You mean," said a tall girl opposite, with black bands of hair drawn down from the brows to give her a resemblance to the Mona Lisa, "that none of us have a chance with a man unless we can get him in a corner? You talk like that newspaper editor, Ted Harriman; he's always saying things about women."
"Not at all," said Finch, trying to recall his Oscar Wilde. "I only mean that when a clever woman is in a dangerous situation, the first thing she does is create a scandal about herself with the wrong man in order to keep the truth at a distance; and if it deceives her lover as well as her husband, she is so much the happier."
"Isn't it easy to be cynical? If I ever decide to have an affair with anyone, I shall certainly ask you to be my— phoney."
"Glad to help you stoop to folly, I'm sure. Perhaps by that time I'll have something I wish to conceal, myself." Finch recklessly threw another glance toward Sonia, then at the Colonel, and was surprised to see the latter, with his eyes widened till the whites showed, staring at the Mona Lisa girl. The head of the Pegasus Literary Society started like a man coming out of a daydream, looked down and saw that his filet of whitefish had cooled, and beckoned the butler.
"Dromio," he said, "take this away and supply us with the roast. A fish like this should be eaten at once or never."
In the interval Finch turned to his partner: "Who is she?"
"Elise? Oh, she and Marmaduke always claimed it was a morganatic marriage, you know, after that scandal over the estate, but the judge couldn't very well say anything else, could he? She used to be so good-looking as a young woman. I remember at the Carnival Ball—"
She stopped abruptly and Finch followed her eyes to the door where, instead of the roast, there had appeared an obese, aproned, short-legged man with the grandfather of all chef's caps failing to diminish his resemblance to a hippopotamus. In his right hand he carried a carving knife the size of a machete, and he was shaken with sobs.
He waved the implement accusingly at Lee. "You spurned it!" he burst out. "My marsterpiece! Aouw, the shyme! Wot is there left when you 'ave broke my bleeding 'eart? Farewell, cruel marster; good-bye, 'arsh world ..."
He raised the knife, gripped the hilt firmly in both hands and directed its point toward his solar plexus. The contact was never made; at the word "world" an. open Moselle bottle, turning end over end to throw its contents out in a golden spiral, took the cook fairly on the side of the head, bounced and shattered on the floor. The knife clattered down; the cook's body followed it with a soft, elephantine impact.
Finch turned toward the source of the missile. Colonel Lee was imperturbably wiping a drop of wine from his white coat. "Doc," he said calmly, "s'pose you jest take care o' that pore little boy. When he comes to, maybe he ought to have something so he'll carve up his meats instead of himself."
A pudgy man, his fingers gleaming with gold rings, left the table with alacrity, to bend over the recumbent cook and a group of servants gathered round. The Colonel's eyes swept the table. "I'm right sorry that this occurrence interrupted our dinner-party, folks. Bert Atkinson sure does get temperamental—"
"No artist who believes himself unappreciated can give his best performance," interrupted Finch.
"Right you are, suh; but no appreciation is as much as an artist thinks he deserves—even an artist in conversation." The Colonel looked past and raised his glass. "Let us do honor to that noble creature, Bert Atkinson, and the remainder of his composition. To the best damn cook south of the Mason-Dixon line, ladies and gentlemen. If you-all will have patience, the flow of victuals will continue."
It did continue, and Finch was glad of the opportunity offered by the slight rebuke to devote himself to the composition of the unhappy Atkinson. He reflected wryly that peaceful enjoyment of anything was about the last achievement that could be hoped for here. If he could locate the counterpart of Tiridat-Terry in this dream, he would almost certainly have the carnelian cube—
"I'll give you a whole nickel for your thoughts, Mr. Finch," said Mrs. Weems by his side. "When you work on them as hard as that, they're plumb worth more than a penny."
"My apologies. If I told you they were about you, you wouldn't believe me, and if I told you about Sonia, it might be dangerous, so I'll tell the truth and say it was about a friend of mine, who ought to be here, but isn't."
Mrs. Weems tittered. "Is she nice? What's her name? Or is that one of your secrets?"
"It isn't she, it's he; and he changes his name. I'd have to describe him for you."
"That's really individual. Hyperion only did it once, at the time of the trial, but I had all my linen marked C.K., for Charles Kuntzberger, you know, the old name, and I wouldn't let him do it again, but what business is your friend in?"
"He might be a professional athlete ..." and Finch gave a description that came as near as possible to a composite portrait of Terry and Tiridat.