About one o'clock they moved to Maxim's, and two found them in
Deviniere's. Sloane had been drinking consecutively and was in a state
of unsteady exhilaration, but Amory was quite tiresomely sober; they had
run across none of those ancient, corrupt buyers of champagne who usually
assisted their New York parties. They were just through dancing and
were making their way back to their chairs when Amory became aware that
some one at a near-by table was looking at him. He turned and glanced
casually . . . a middle-aged man dressed in a brown sack suit, it was,
sitting a little apart at a table by himself and watching their party
intently. At Amory's glance he smiled faintly. Amory turned to Fred,
who was just sitting down.
"Who's that pale fool watching us?" he complained indignantly.
"Where?" cried Sloane. "We'll have him thrown out!" He rose to his feet
and swayed back and forth, clinging to his chair. "Where is he?"
Axia and Phoebe suddenly leaned and whispered to each other across the
table, and before Amory realized it they found themselves on their way to
the door.
"Where now?"
"Up to the flat," suggested Phoebe.
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