One Mrs. Koreball, officially known as No. 772, The Westward, gave a 'party' for Effie May.
Effie May found it charming.
Mrs. Koreball, Effie perceived, was so sweet! Such a little lady, with black hair so sleek and shiny, exactly parted in the middle, and with demure lips and the small chin of a child, but such gay and knowing eyes! Her suite was ever so much bigger than Effie's, and had the most won'erful real genuine Spanish antiques: a great, big, thick oak table--a refectory table, it was called--with the oldest wooden chairs, hundreds of years old, from a Spanish monastery! And on the walls Mrs. Koreball didn't have ordinary pictures, but so different--images of the saints, very antique, and what she said were copes, all deep red with gold borders, hung right on the wall. And there was a candlestick of gilded oak with a candle four feet tall!
Mrs. Koreball did not serve cocktails, but a simply won'erful punch made, she said, of champagne and brandy and Mosel (that was a German wine) and vodka (that was a kind of Russian white-mule) and a lot of other things, but all with fruit juice, so it didn't seem strong, but Mrs. Koreball warned her--she must be careful, Mrs. Koreball told her, not to drink too much, because it was awfully strong and she couldn't have her new friend Effie get cockeyed at this first party, she said, and she laughed like anything, and kissed Effie, and her eyes were naughty but so nice.
'What do you think I had the nerve to do, Mrs. Weagle? I called up your handsome husband, and he says maybe he'll drop in, too.'
'Oh, I hope he does!'
'You still like him?'
'Oh, I think he's marvellous--so strong and you can depend on him and everything. But it is so hard to get him to go to a party before seven. They keep him so busy in the Front Office.'
'He's the handsomest thing!'
'Oh, do you think so, Mrs. Koreball? I suppose he is, but what I always think of first is how he's so strong, and so sort of dependable. Of course he does look kind of clean and all, like he did wash behind the ears, but handsome . . . now a handsome man is like that Duke of Essex or Earl of something or whatever he was in "Queen Elizabeth". That was a picture that . . .'
'Yes, I know. I saw it.' Mrs. Koreball seemed a little abrupt. 'Well, come, you must meet the Bunch.'
Round the punch-bowl was simply the nicest group of people Effie May had ever met--oh, of course, except Myron and Luciano and Alec. The men has such lovely diagonally barred ties, and two of them wore spats, though quite a few of them, unfortunately, were bald. The funniest one was a short little man with a red face that he screwed up like a monkey, but you just had to like him, he was so funny.
'My Lord, it's Helen of Troy herself!' he screamed, when Effie was introduced, and everybody laughed, so pleasantly.
Fortunately Effie knew that Helen of Tory was a very beautiful woman, who was named Helen and who lived in Troy, which was in ancient Greece, so she did not feel embarrassed.
'Come on, Helen, time for another glass,' said the monkey-man.
'Oh, I've just had one, and I'm afraid it's awfully strong--I wouldn't want to get cockeyed!'
'Nonsense! It's just orange juice with just a wee, tiny touch of dynamite and maybe a trace of carbolic acid! Come hither, lovely one, and let us converse!' He took her arm, guided her to a couch covered with purple brocade, and chattered, 'My name is Harry Burphy, and what, my rose of Sharon, is your monicker? I didn't catch it when our fair hostess threw you to us lions.'
'My name is Effie May Weagle. Isn't it just the silliest name!' She giggled.
'Well, Effie May, when are you going to have lunch with me? I've got the slickest imported Italian auto in town and even if it is winter now, I think it would be fun to run up the Hudson to Ye Bunche of Grapes some noon. What say? Good Lord, what lovely fingers you have! Why, I've never seen such lovely fingers as you have!' He seized them; he recited, with ample illustration, 'This little pig went to market'.
It certainly was not Black Thread, but Effice May liked it, while assuring herself that she didn't. His wiry little hands were strong, and he knew how to do such unusual and interesting things with fingers. She meant to refuse his luncheon invitation, but he hadn't yet given her a chance, and just when she was thinking out a good formula for it, he leaped up, dashed at the punch-bowl, and brought back an enormous glass--her third. She sipped it slowly, determining with each sip to stop sipping, and she felt odd and very happy, and presently she seemed to be arguing about going to Ye Bunche of Grapes, but a little uncertain as to just which side of the argument she was taking. And then, curiously, Myron was standing by the couch, looking down at them, enormously tall and, while his lips smiled, terrifyingly stern about the eyes.
Myron had never been in Mrs. Koreball's apartment, but he knew the lady and disliked her with simple fervour. She was a neat little trick, with baby lips and chin, and with the more decorative hotel clerks, she was plush-genteel and syrup-sweet. But she was always sending chambermaids out weeping, and bell-boys out cursing. Every month she made the deuce of a row with the cashier about her bill; she always insisted that the waiters were thieves and that she simply couldn't have had that much mineral water. When they begged her to add up her own initialed cheques, she said they were insulting, and stamped her dainty little foot, and her girlish eyes showed an active desire to boil the cashier in oil. She was one of the few guests who had furnished their own suites, and over that, too, there had been a gorgeous row. She had, Myron recalled, tried to jew them down to half the rent, though it meant only that they would have to store the furniture already installed.
He devoutly did not wish to attend the punch-bowl party, but when she insisted that it was in Effie May's honour, he had to go--merely cynically wondering in how many other people's 'honour' it might be also.
As he came in, he looked sharply at the gang: just the sort of well-pressed, well-spoken bill-dodgers who were an hotel's worst pest. The room-decorations, he saw, were atrocious: a big slab of a table, dining-chairs with backs that were too-straight and provided with knobs for the gouging of your shoulder blades, and priestly vestments desecrated by being hung as wall ornaments. Spanish, eh? Antique, eh? Oh yes? Well, he knew the venerable Iberian Händler from whom they came--none other than Señor Don Milton Pincus of the Bronx.
Mrs. Koreball was buzzing, 'So sweet of you to come, Mr. Weagle--though I almost feel like calling you "Myron", like your girl friend! She's the loveliest thing I ever saw! Now you two have found your way, you must drop in for a drink often--the latch-string is always out.'
('Gawd, it's certainly fine for Effie to get away from Black Thread hicks like Mrs. Ted Dingle, and meet cultivated women of the world like this female!')
'But it always seems so hard to get hold of busy executives like you, Myron, and I suppose you handsome men are just chased to death by silly women like me! Well, of course, ever since my Ex put me in my place and let me see what a mean, difficult wench I am, I've learned to sit and fold my hands and just wait to be noticed. Now you come and have some punch. It's quite good, even if I did make it--it's nice orange juice, with maybe a tiny touch of dynamite and just a trace of carbolic acid. Oh! Before I forget! I know it's shocking to talk business in society, but you're so hard to get hold of, and do you suppose you could persuade that dumb beast of a housekeeper to give me just a few towels, now and then? Won't you speak to her? But now come and have a nice glass of punch.'