"We're here now--don't le's rush." "I don't like this place," Amory said sulkily, "and I don't want any food." Phoebe reappeared with sandwiches, brandy bottle, siphon, and four glasses.
"Amory, pour 'em out," she said, "and we'll drink to Fred Sloane, who has a rare, distinguished edge." "Yes," said Axia, coming in, "and Amory.

I like Amory." She sat down beside him and laid her yellow head on his shoulder.
"I'll pour," said Sloane; "you use siphon, Phoebe." They filled the tray with glasses.
"Ready, here she goes!" Amory hesitated, glass in hand.
There was a minute while temptation crept over him like a warm wind, and his imagination turned to fire, and he took the glass from Phoebe's hand.

That was all; for at the second that his decision came, he looked up and saw, ten yards from him, the man who had been in the cafe, and with his jump of astonishment the glass fell from his uplifted hand.
There the man half sat, half leaned against a pile of pillows on the corner divan.

His face was cast in the same yellow wax as in the cafe, neither the dull, pasty color of a dead man--rather a sort of virile pallor--nor unhealthy, you'd have called it; but like a strong man who'd worked in a mine or done night shifts in a damp climate.

Amory looked him over carefully and later he could have drawn him after a fashion, down to the merest details.