As he sat alone in a corner of the club, staring with grim satire into the ugly face of his affairs, upon him intruded a man whom he had often described as the most viciously tiresome person he had ever met--Count Eitel zu Blickenstern. He disliked Blickenstern because he was a German; he avoided him because he was dull, because he was a chronic and ingenious borrower of small sums of money, and because every remark that seemed to him to have been intended humourously was hailed by him with a loud, mirthless laugh--the laugh of those who have no notion of wit or humour and fear their deformity will be discovered. Frothingham had first met Blickenstern in the Riviera, where he was living on the last lees of tolerance. He would have cut him when he ran across him in New York had he not found him in high favour with the women who dominated fashionable society. They admitted Blickenstern as they admitted almost any of the few available men with no occupation but idleness. They needed escorts, attendants, fetch-and-carry men; Blickenstern was idle and willing, was big and always well-dressed, was useful to do the hard work of arranging an entertainment once it had been planned. And his noisy convulsions flattered those unaccustomed to having their jokes appreciated. Frothingham’s cold stare did not disturb Blickenstern, born insensible to mental temperatures. He posed for a moment to give Frothingham a chance to admire his fashionable array of new light grey frock suit, white spats, orchid in buttonhole, and dark red tie; then he dropped upon the lounge with the good-natured, slightly condescending greeting he gave men when he had money in his pockets. He explained that he had come the night before in a private car with a party of distinguished New Yorkers who had to testify before a Senate committee. “And, do you know,” said he--his English was idiomatic American and almost without accent, “the first person I ran into was that Italian scalawag, Rontivogli.” Frothingham’s eyeglass glistened; otherwise he did not change expression. “D’you know ’im?” he asked languidly. “What’ll you drink?” “Brandy and soda,” replied Blickenstern. “Know ’im? Rather! I’m responsible for him in this country. He landed without a friend and the people he had letters to shut the door in his face--they don’t fancy Italians in New York. I introduced him round and got him in everywhere. And, by gad, he not only refused to pay a note he gave me, but when I met him here last night he stared at me as if he’d never seen me before.” “Rough, wasn’t it?”