"Introduce us, please, Mr. Kendrick. We have been making furtive
conversation for the last five minutes."
"It is a great occasion," Kendrick declared. "I present Mr. John Wingate,
America's greatest financier, most successful soldier, and absolutely
inevitable President, to Miss Flossie Lane, England's greatest musical
comedy artist."
Miss Lane grabbed Wingate's arm.
"Let's go in to supper," she suggested. "All the best places will be
taken if we don't hurry."
"One word," Kendrick begged, relapsing for a moment into his ordinary
manner as he touched Wingate on the shoulder. "Dredlinton is here, rather
drunk and very quarrelsome. I heard him telling some one about having
found you dining alone with his wife to-night. Phipps was listening. Look
at him, as black as a thundercloud! Keep your head if Dredlinton gets
troublesome."
Wingate nodded and was promptly led away. They found places about
half-way down the great horseshoe table, laden with flowers and every
sort of cold delicacy. There were champagne bottles at every other
place, a small crowd of waiters, eager to justify their existence,--a
rollicking, Bohemian crowd, the _jeunesse doree_ of London, and all the
talent and beauty of the musical comedy stage. It was a side of life with
which Wingate was somewhat unfamiliar. Nevertheless, his feet that night
were resting upon the clouds.
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