II.
Accordingly he went to the party at Chez Victor two days later, upstairs and into the little salon off the bar where the party was to assemble for cocktails. He was early; the only other occupant was a tall lean man of fifty. They spoke.
“You waiting for George Packman’s party?”
“Yes. My name’s Michael Curly.”
“My name’s—”
Michael failed to catch the name. They ordered a drink, and Michael supposed that the bride and groom were having a gay time.
“Too much so,” the other agreed, frowning. “I don’t see how they stand it. We all crossed on the boat together; five days of that crazy life and then two weeks of Paris. You”—he hesitated, smiling faintly—”you’ll excuse me for saying that your generation drinks too much.”
“Not Caroline.”
“No, not Caroline. She seems to take only a cock
