Then anyone would know it, unless he
had spent a lifetime refereeing skunk-squirting contests.
Old man Thomas, I think his name is, formerly Editor of the New
York Times, now a sort of newspaperman head of the Pulitzer
School of Journalism, and who had Joan in his classes when she
went to that school, got tight and went all around telling the
guests his great grandpappy was half Indian. His good old wife
stayed sober, and as a result sprained an ankle on the scuffed-up
rug. The woman Editor of Vogue, or else one of its principal
writers, kissed me because she said I looked like her cousin who
had his leg shot off in the Spanish-American War. In the
excitement I kissed Mary Beth Plummer--top woman writer on the
Associated Press and incidentally about the best looking--just to
show my good taste.
Early in the game, Munny saw what was coming. So she shepherded
Mrs. Oxnam and daughter away early. They put the daughter to bed.
Then went out on their own, and in some unaccountable manner got
into the bar of the Hotel, saw what they had done--and ordered
lemonade. All Munny needed to complete the picture was a basket
of eggs on one arm and a fresh dressed chicken under the other.
My Gosh! But we had a time.
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