Mellin laughed
heartily at everything the Honorable Chandler Pedlow said.
"This is life," remarked the young man to his fair neighbor.
"What is? Sittin' round a table, eatin' and drinkin'?"
"Ah, lovely skeptic!" She looked at him strangely, but he continued with
growing enthusiasm: "I mean to sit at such a table as this, with such
a chef, with such wines--to know one crowded hour like this is to live!
Not a thing is missing; all this swagger furniture, the rich atmosphere
of smartness about the whole place; best of all, the company. It's a
great thing to have the _real_ people around you, the right sort, you
know, socially; people you'd ask to your own table at home. There are
only seven, but every one _distingue_, every one--"
She leaned both elbows on the table with her hands palm to palm, and,
resting her cheek against the back of her left hand, looked at him
steadily.
"And you--are you distinguished, too?"
"Oh, I wouldn't be much known over _here_," he said modestly.
"Do you write poetry?"
"Oh, not professionally, though it is published.
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