it when Breitmann came in. The latter’s velvet collar was worn; there was a suspicious gloss at the elbows; the cuff buttons were of cheap metal; his fingers were without rings. But the American readily understood. There are lean years and fat years in journalism, and he himself had known them. For the present this man was a little down on his luck; that was all.
A party came in and took the near table. There were four; two elderly men, an elderly woman, and a girl. Fitzgerald, as he side-glanced, was afforded a shiver of pleasure. He recognized the girl. It was she who had given the flowers to the veteran.
“That is a remarkably fine young woman,” said Breitmann, echoing Fitzgerald’s thought.
The waiter opened the champagne.
“Yes. I saw her give some violets this afternoon to an old soldier in the tomb. It was a pretty scene.”
“Well,” said Breitmann, raising his glass, “a pretty woman and a bottle!”
It was the first jarring note, and Fitzgerald frowned.
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