drangeas tumbled from the balcony of a building opposite where he stood.
Good God, what was that? he demanded.
An earthquake, Mr. Deacon. Merely an earthquake, Ringrose repeated significantly.
Requisitioning a passing vehicle, he installed the distinguished dramatist therein. Then he leaned forward confidentially to announce: We'll go into this whole matter later.
This last remark created so deep an impression on that whirlpool which at present constituted Ambrose Deacon's consciousness that he found it possible to enjoy only confused glimpses of the lines of stately palms, the stalls where bright-hued flowers were vended, or the rows of stucco villas. Quite suddenly, as the impertinence of Ringrose's diatribe forced itself on his reason, he flushed with anger. What right had this ham director to talk to him, Ambrose Deacon, in this manner? Whose business other than his own was it if he chose to travel on milkwagons and to fling himself into space from their high seats? And yet he knew full well, if Ringrose should suddenly confront him in the taxi, he would be afraid to take him to task for his presumption.
As the chauffeur drove up before the perron of the
