She was amused by the frequency with
which Shine Taylor and Reginald Warren plied their guest with
cigarettes: Shirley's legerdemain in substituting them was worthy
of the vaudeville stage.
"The wine and my smoking have made me drowsy," he told her, with
no effort at concealment. "We must get home or I'll fall asleep
myself."
A covert smile flitted across Warren's pale face, as Shirley
unconventionally indulged in several semi-polite yawns, nodding
a bit, as well. Helene accepted glass after glass of wine,
thoughtfully poured out by her host. And as thoughtfully, did
she pour it into the flower vases when his back was turned: she
matched the other girls' acute transports of vinous joy without
an error. Shirley walked to the window, asking if he might open
it for a little fresh air. Warren nodded smiling.
"You are well on the way to heaven in this altitude of eight
stories," volunteered Shirley, with a sleepy laugh.
"Yes. The eighth and top floor. A burglar could make a good
haul of my collection, except that I have the window to the fire
escape barred from the inside, around the corner facing to the
north.
Pages:
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212