In the grill room of The Brompton House, a tiered oval around a dance floor on which visiting Firemen shuffled to the music of a lymphatic band, the quartette drank Manhattans, ate shrimp cocktails, lobster bisque, fried oysters, French fried potatoes, French fried onions, French fried eggplant, Waldorf salad, strawberry shortcake and coffee. Mr. Bleutcher insisted on fish on Friday. He saved his beef for labor unions, manufacturing costs and the iniquities of the open-toe craze. In addition, he disapproved of smoking for women, high wages for labor, modern dress and all modern medicine outside of chiropractic correction. Although he never once looked at Grabinett or Lennox, he demanded their complete attention. Grabinett blinked his all. Lennox gave as much as he could spare from the daughter. Olga was very young and very intense. She put her hand on Jake's arm and discussed Sartre, Kafka and Henry James. Since she was seated on his right, this made eating difficult for Jake. She was plainly excited with him as a professional writer. "Christ in close-up," Lennox thought. "She wants to be a writer too. I'm dead." She attempted an arresting originality of conversation that was exhausting. In self-preservation, Lennox asked her to dance. This was a mistake. Olga Bleutcher was a lovely dancer, but she didn't melt into Jake's arms. She projected her body against him and operated with alarming suggestiveness. There was no escaping the pressures of her bosom, her torso and thighs. It was obvious that Olga too was aware of her big selling point. It was also obvious that she had been under restraint while she was with her father. "My God!" she whispered in Jake's ear. "Isn't he a reactionary old fart?" Lennox tried to turn his grunt of amazement into a chuckle. "Do you think they'd let us sneak a smoke on the floor?" Olga asked. "I'm dying for a cigarette." "I don't know. We can try." "You keep dancing," she murmured. "I'll find them." Her hands began exploring his pockets. Lennox had to explain that he didn't carry cigarettes because he didn't smoke. "What have I got myself into?" he wondered. "Is she a nympho?" Miss Bleutcher pressed herself against him. "It's so comforting dancing with a big man," she said. "You can spread out on him. There was a private beach north of Cannes where I used to strip and sunbathe. You feel just like the sand." "Careful of the shells," Lennox muttered. He glanced down at her. All he could see was the cat's eyes. He was alarmed to discover that she was getting better looking. "Where can a _soi-disant_ virgin get plastered New Year's Eve?" Miss Bleutcher inquired. "You're going to be in town over New Year's?" "I'm going to be on the town New Year's ... after Four-Buckle Arctics corks off." "Who?" Olga Bleutcher motioned with her head toward her father. "I'm going to pour myself into a strapless and come to no good. Have you got any suggestions?"