them I
got through the meal without serious embarrassment.
The congressman from Michigan could have done the same, but he didn't. He
didn't look dumb, just sort of weakly self-satisfied. He was also compulsively
voluble on the subject of Michigan , perhaps the only subject he felt he had mastered.
The person in the unfortunate position of
having to listen to him was Cunard Cotswinkle, old Dunscombe's wife, a honey
blonde about Boss's age who had managed to marry and outlive three of the
world's ten richest men. Her nickname was Cunny and her charm was said to be
fatal— evidently a hyperbole, since if it had been, the congressman from Michigan would have been dead before we reached the
salad course.
At any rate, the congressman made a simple
mistake: He talked when he should have been eating. Consequently, while the
rest of us were eating salad his coq au vin still sat in front of him,
untouched.
Across from me, John C. V. Ponsonby showed
signs of being about to come to life. His chin, long since sunk on his bony
chest, lifted a degree or two, and one hand began to
fumble with his bow tie. The ladies beside me stared at him balefully: Clearly
he was not a favorite of theirs.
"If Jake starts talking about Egypt I'm leaving," one whispered to the
other, across my salad.
"I know what you mean," the other
said. "It's bad enough to have to read his columns."
"Oh, I don't read him," the first
lady said, looking reflective for a moment.
"If it came to that, I'd rather fuck him
than read him," she said. "I feel the same way about Max Lerner, for
what that's worth."
It was at this point that we all heard the
hideous scratching of eight little paws, all of them trying to gain a purchase
on the highly polished floor.
Here came the pugs, old, fat, and black,
making awful little mewling sounds as they tried to scratch their way across
the floor, their wet red tongues hanging over their underbites. Twice they lost
their purchase and sprawled on their stomachs on the slick floor, mewling more
horribly than ever.
The second time this happened Perkins picked them up by their scruffs and carried them around the table to
their mistress. That he managed to perform this chore without losing one whit
of his dignity says all that need be said for the man's presence.
Pencil Penrose received the dogs cheerfully
and they immediately began to compete with one another to scramble over her
bosom and lick her face,
"Wogers!" she exclaimed. "Gogers!"
as the little black dogs flung themselves at her overhanging bosom like salmon
at a waterfall.
The immediate effect of her exclamation was to
bring John C.V. Ponsonby to full wakefulness for the first time in hours. He
blinked slowly, like the old frog he more or less resembled, and watched
impassively as Wogers and Gogers attempted to scramble up or around Pencil's
bosom.
Despite her fondness for them, Pencil soon
tired of their sharp little claws and wet little tongues, so she without
further ado simply set them on the dinner table.
Chapter X
I was frankly shocked. I had eaten at a number
of tables where it was customary to set the plates under the table for the
dogs, but never at one where the dogs were put on the table and given a go at
the plates.
In view of the reaction of the ladies beside
me, I'm inclined to think it's not a common thing, even in Georgetown . They snapped to attention and looked around
them happily, as if they had received an unexpected benediction.
"Now that
got through the meal without serious embarrassment.
The congressman from Michigan could have done the same, but he didn't. He
didn't look dumb, just sort of weakly self-satisfied. He was also compulsively
voluble on the subject of Michigan , perhaps the only subject he felt he had mastered.
The person in the unfortunate position of
having to listen to him was Cunard Cotswinkle, old Dunscombe's wife, a honey
blonde about Boss's age who had managed to marry and outlive three of the
world's ten richest men. Her nickname was Cunny and her charm was said to be
fatal— evidently a hyperbole, since if it had been, the congressman from Michigan would have been dead before we reached the
salad course.
At any rate, the congressman made a simple
mistake: He talked when he should have been eating. Consequently, while the
rest of us were eating salad his coq au vin still sat in front of him,
untouched.
Across from me, John C. V. Ponsonby showed
signs of being about to come to life. His chin, long since sunk on his bony
chest, lifted a degree or two, and one hand began to
fumble with his bow tie. The ladies beside me stared at him balefully: Clearly
he was not a favorite of theirs.
"If Jake starts talking about Egypt I'm leaving," one whispered to the
other, across my salad.
"I know what you mean," the other
said. "It's bad enough to have to read his columns."
"Oh, I don't read him," the first
lady said, looking reflective for a moment.
"If it came to that, I'd rather fuck him
than read him," she said. "I feel the same way about Max Lerner, for
what that's worth."
It was at this point that we all heard the
hideous scratching of eight little paws, all of them trying to gain a purchase
on the highly polished floor.
Here came the pugs, old, fat, and black,
making awful little mewling sounds as they tried to scratch their way across
the floor, their wet red tongues hanging over their underbites. Twice they lost
their purchase and sprawled on their stomachs on the slick floor, mewling more
horribly than ever.
The second time this happened Perkins picked them up by their scruffs and carried them around the table to
their mistress. That he managed to perform this chore without losing one whit
of his dignity says all that need be said for the man's presence.
Pencil Penrose received the dogs cheerfully
and they immediately began to compete with one another to scramble over her
bosom and lick her face,
"Wogers!" she exclaimed. "Gogers!"
as the little black dogs flung themselves at her overhanging bosom like salmon
at a waterfall.
The immediate effect of her exclamation was to
bring John C.V. Ponsonby to full wakefulness for the first time in hours. He
blinked slowly, like the old frog he more or less resembled, and watched
impassively as Wogers and Gogers attempted to scramble up or around Pencil's
bosom.
Despite her fondness for them, Pencil soon
tired of their sharp little claws and wet little tongues, so she without
further ado simply set them on the dinner table.
Chapter X
I was frankly shocked. I had eaten at a number
of tables where it was customary to set the plates under the table for the
dogs, but never at one where the dogs were put on the table and given a go at
the plates.
In view of the reaction of the ladies beside
me, I'm inclined to think it's not a common thing, even in Georgetown . They snapped to attention and looked around
them happily, as if they had received an unexpected benediction.
"Now that
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