The Jewel Box Read Online Free Page B

pity on you). As it is, he’s becoming just a tad starry (I’ve hitherto spotted such luminaries as Isadora Duncan, Constance Talmadge and Louise Brooks stepping out from his chair). They come from far and wide for that masterful trigonometry that flows from his fingertips and which simply cannot be matched anywhere outside of Paris. As I sat in his chair yesterday in a half swoon, he whispered into my ear that he moonlights as a magician, sawing ladies in half before select gatherings and occasionally making them vanish. I advised him that in future it would be a public service to vanish only those with badly bobbed hair and leave the rest of us untouched.
    Now, children: Spring is with us, the daylight is lingering on and stretching out—and with it, our dancing feet. The newly reopened Silvestra Club is particularly seasonal right now, all hung with pink and green garlands, and the walls sporting an array of tiny turquoise birds. I suggest ye gather ye rosebuds…A small request for Dan Cramen’s new orchestra, however: Could you play a tiny bit faster? Thank you.
    Now, as to last Tuesday: I must beseech the management of Ciro’s not to offer their splendid venue to dusty old publishers for any more strange literary gatherings. Those glistening champagne fountains were an expensively bought mirage, for I absolutely will not concede that the world of books has about it any real glamour. Mr. Samuel Woolton, you are trying too hard.
    Finally, a personal appeal on behalf of my little sister Sapphire: Would a certain broad-shouldered Irish American gentleman please step forward and reveal his identity? Poor Sapphire is smitten and will not rest easy until she knows who this devil-in-a-dinner-suit is.
    Diamond Sharp

Two
    One week after the Ciro’s party, Dickie telephoned Grace to invite her for lunch at Katarina’s, a much-lauded Russian restaurant in Kensington.
    At the time of the call, Grace was at work on the new campaign for Stewards’ Breath-Freshening Elixir with Oscar Cato-Ferguson, a fellow copywriter whom she thought rather oily.
    Cato-Ferguson’s contention was that they should plug Stewards’ as being a new and unbeatable health tonic: “Fresh Breath for Life.”
    Grace had a pencil between her teeth in place of the habitual cigarette. “I don’t like it.”
    “Why?” Ferguson was lounging back in his chair, his feet up on Grace’s desk. “Perhaps because it was my idea?”
    “Don’t be ridiculous.” Grace regarded the soles of Ferguson’s shoes with pure loathing. “It just doesn’t speak to me.Sour breath is more of a social problem than a health problem. It undermines the confidence. That’s where Stewards’ can help.”
    Ferguson glanced at his watch and made as if to suppress a yawn.
    “Kissing.” Grace laid particular emphasis on the word—watched for its effect. Yes, he was sitting up a little now.
    That was when the telephone rang.
    “Ever tried borscht, Gracie?”
    Beneath the swirl of sour cream, the borscht was a deep, intense pink. To the taste, it was thickly sweet.
    “What is this stuff?” Grace peered at her spoon.
    “Beetroot,” said Dickie. “With a dash of vodka, I think. It’s about to be very fashionable. Diamond should take an interest.”
    “We’ll see about that.”
    “About your last-but-one column.” Dickie sipped his beer. “I’ve had a complaint.”
    “What was it this time? Innuendo? I was genuinely talking about the Charleston, you know.”
    “Female suffrage, actually. You expressed sympathy for women under thirty because they don’t have the vote.”
    “No, I didn’t. Not exactly. I said I would sympathize if it wasn’t for the fact that they’re so fearfully young and lovely.”
    Dickie’s expression was reproving. “Exactly how old are you?”
    “Thirty. You know that.”
    He dispatched the last of his borscht. “The Piccadilly Herald doesn’t have a stated position on the extension of the franchise. You know that.”
    “I don’t