The car halted before an uptown hotel.
"Come on!" said the waster.
"Bring it out," suggested Bean, devising flight.
The waster prepared to use force.
"Quit. I'll go," said Bean.
He was before a polished bar, the white-jacketed attendant of which not only recognized the waster but seemed to divine his errand.
"Two," commanded the waster. The attendant had already reached for a bottle of absinthe, and now busied himself with two eggs, a shaker, and cracked ice.
"White of an egg, delicate but nourishing after bachelor dinners," said the waster expertly.
Bean, in the polished mirror, regarded a pallid and shrinking youth whom he knew to be himself—not a reincarnation of the Egyptian king, but just Bunker Bean. He could not endure a long look at the thing, and allowed his gaze to wander to the panelled woodwork of the bar.
"Fumed oak," he suggested to the waster.
But the waster pushed one of the slender-stemmed glasses toward him.
"There's the life-line, old top; cling to it! Here's a go!"
Bean drank. The beverage was icy, but it warmed him to life. The mere white of an egg mixed with a liquid of such perfect innocence that he recalled it from his soothing-syrup days.
"Have one with me," he said in what he knew to be a faultless bar manner.
"Oh, I say old top," the waster protested.
