"
I had to confess that the City Hotel was very highly regarded by most of
our citizens.
Again, after a brief interval of stupefaction, did James Walsingham
Price call upon his Maker. "And yet," he murmured, "we are spending
millions annually to impose mere theology upon savages far less
benighted. Think for a moment what a tithe of that money would do for
these poor people. Take the matter of green salads alone--to say nothing
of soups--don't you have so simple a thing as lettuce here?"
"We do," I said, "but it's regarded as a trifle. They put vinegar and
sugar on it and cut it up with their knives."
My guest shuddered.
"I dare say it's hopeless, but I shall always be glad to remember that
_you_ exist away from your City Hotel."
Thus did we reach the coffee and some cognac which the late L.Q. Peavey
had gifted me with by the hands of his estimable kinswoman.
"And now to business," said my guest. His whimsical gray eyes had become
studious and detached from our surroundings. He had a generous mouth,
which he seemed habitually to sew up in a close-drawn seam, but this
would suddenly and pleasantly rip in moments of forgetfulness. Being the
collector at this moment, the mouth was tightly stitched.
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