Chance was
favoring him. The newcomers were garbed in that debonair and
"cultured" modishness so dear to the hearts of magazine
illustrators. Faces, weak with sunken cheek lines, strong in
creases of selfishness, darkened by the brush strokes of
nocturnal excesses and seared, all of them with the brand mark of
inbred rascality, identified them to Shirley as members of that
shrewd class of sycophants who feast on the follies of the more
amateurish moths of the Broadway Candles.
"Hello, old pop Grimsby!"
"You're in the dark of the moon, Grimmie! I couldn't make you
out but for those horn rimmed head lights."
"Welcome to the joy-parlor, old scout."
The greetings of the juvenile buzzards varied only in
phraseology: their portent was identical: "Open wine."
"Poor Mr Grimsby is so ill this afternoon, but sit down and have
something with us," volunteered Helene tremulously.
The bees gathered about the table to feast on the vinous honey,
while Shirley, mumbling a few words, maintained his partial
obscurity, with one hand to his forehead.
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