"Do you remember at school the caricature you drew of me--all hands and feet and face, and absolutely no body?
I've got that yet; and I'm very proud to have it when I hear people speak of your artistic success.

Some day, if I ever have any money again, I'll ask you to paint a better portrait of me, if you have time." They laughed again over this mild pleasantry; a cordial understanding was developing between them, which meant much to Grandcourt, for he was a lonely man and his shyness had always deprived him of what he most cared for--what really might have been his only resource--the friendship of other men.
For some time, while they were talking, Duane had noticed out of the corner of his eye another man at a neighbouring table--a thin, pop-eyed, hollow-chested, unhealthy young fellow, who, at intervals, stared insolently at Grandcourt, and once or twice contrived to knock over his glass of whiskey while reaching unsteadily for a fresh cigarette.
The man was Stuyvesant Quest, drunk as usual, and evidently in an unpleasant mood.
Grandcourt's back was toward him; Duane paid him no particular attention, though at moments he noticed him scowling in their direction and seemed to hear him fussing and muttering over his whiskey and soda, which, with cigarettes, comprised his luncheon.
"I wish I were going up to Roya-Neh with you," repeated Grandcourt.

"I had a bully time up there--everybody was unusually nice to me, and I had a fine time." "I know they'll ask you up whenever you can get away," said Duane.
"Geraldine Seagrave likes you immensely." "Does she ?" exclaimed Grandcourt, blushing.

"I'd rather believe that than almost anything! She was very, very kind to me, I can tell you; and Lord knows why, because I've nothing intellectual to offer anybody, and I certainly am not pretty!" Duane, very much amused, looked at his watch.
"When does your train leave ?" asked Grandcourt.
"I've an hour yet." "Come up to my room and smoke.

I've better whiskey than we dispense down here.