“Flix! You are a genius,” said Mrs. Hood. “An absolute genius! How clever of you to suggest I ask Dr. Quintland to be my dance partner! The man is brilliant. And can he dance like a dream. His moves are as smooth as silk!”
Flix was trying to make his way discreetly to the table. On hearing Mrs. Hood’s voice, his neck seemed to shrink down into his heavily starched collar.
“Bravo, old man!” said George. “You successfully removed the heinous claws from your own back and firmly planted them into the good doctor!”
“What are you jabbering about, you disgusting imbecile?” Avery spat at George.
“Zip it, moron. Can’t you see the intellectuals at the table are trying to conduct an intelligent conversation?”
“Mrs. Hood,” Flix said, ignoring the darts and arrows that George and Avery were passing across the table, “I am so glad you enjoyed yourself last evening!”
“Enjoyed! I haven’t had this much fun since I spiked the cocktails with amphetamines two years ago! I danced all night.”
“I am happy for you,” said Flix.
“Good dope puts the zing in your swing, eh, Inez,” muttered George.
“Crapple Man, do us all a favor and drop dead, you little diddly-squat!” said Avery.
George ignored Avery. There was an audible bump as someone stumbled into the room. It was Wolcott. He looked very pale.
“Wolly wolly oxen free,” George exclaimed, “you look like the butt end of a cheap cigar that’s been left out in the rain for weeks! Was it tie-downs and gruel? Screaming and banging your head against the wall night and day and day and night? Or did they have you so doped up, you dribbled down your straight-jacket like Niagara Falls?”
“Please, George, we’re trying to eat.”
“Hope you are feeling more like old self, Wolcott,” someone commented.
“Yes. I am feeling much better. Thank you,” Wolcott mumbled.
Wolcott stared down at his plate, trying to remember which fork to pick up first.
“Too many roadster smash-ups jumble the brain,” muttered Mr. Birmingham-Hill.
“What’s that, B. Hill?” George asked.
“Nothing. I was just thinking aloud. And kindly remember, it is Birmingham-Hill, not some abbreviated, adulterated mockery of my family’s good name.”
“Mockery? Mock anyone! Me?” George said, devilishly.
“That’s all you do, Capple Man,” spat Avery.
“Avery,” one of the nurses said, “kindly finish your meal. It is getting cold.”
“Not hungry. I’m going outside for a smoke.”
“Just remember to be back in time for tea. They have crafts scheduled today.”
“Damn your crummy, old crafts,” Avery grumbled on her way out.
“I wonder, what’s knotted her petticoats?”
“Mooning over her latest lover, I’d imagine. She wasn’t sleeping last night when he showed up under her window. He wasn’t at the dance, I noticed,” George smirked. “Eastwyk, or some ridiculous name, such as that.
Anyway, I noticed her at the party.
A wilting wallflower.
I don’t recall her dancing once the whole night. And that get-up she was wearing. Glad rags? What was she supposed to be?”
“A gypsy, I think,” someone from the other end of the table offered.
“Gypsy!” George said. “Huh! I thought she was the local rag picker!”
“That seemed to be the theme, I think,” someone added.
George took an enormous bite of Danish. He continued his conversation as pieces of the sweet tried gallantly to escape mastication.
“Anyway, I noticed a couple of strangers crashing the party,” George said. “They were young. Probably thought it a wild prank to look in on the loonies.
Bet you a donut, they were some of the riffraff from across the lake. You’d be surprised how many motor boats are out in the middle of the night.
But Avery didn’t go for any of them. The young men, I mean. Not like her at all. She’s usually the life of the party. She just sat around like a knot on a log. Wore such a grimace all night, even I didn’t dare speak to her.”
“Poor dear,” said Mrs. Hood. “I wish I’d known. I’d have jazzed up her drink with a little dope.”
Flix choked on his coffee.
“Oh, my dear man. I did not mean to startle you. But, it is true. It really does put the pep into the party!”