5Milton Minor, author of “New Industrialists for Old,” lifted his left eyebrow, drained his glass and held it back for another. He was fatter and sleeker, his hair line a little farther back, and he was puffish under the eyes. Otherwise, except also for a new black mustache, he hadn’t changed much.
“It is the gifted biographer in person,” he said. He looked quickly back at the group by the drawing-room door. “And let’s get the hell out of here, Grace. You don’t know. She’s supposed to be buried somewhere in Montana.”
We’d taken a few steps when he stopped, returned hastily and picked up the cocktail shaker, and came back.
“It’s nice to see you, lady.”
Things being as they were, it was nice to see him too, and it was certainly nice to get out, if I could, before Mr. Stubblefield decided
