This really seemed superfluous, and--judging by the straightforward gait
of our escorts, to say nothing of my knowledge of their habits--there is
no doubt that it was.
Outside the hotel the Philosopher, looking away from it and from
the other great buildings which surrounded us on every side, sent
his gaze upward to the starry winter's sky. He drew in deep breaths
of the frosty air.
"Getting the Amazon out of your blood?" inquired the Skeptic. "Amazon's
a mighty good name for it. It thinks it's sophisticated and refined--but
it isn't. It's a great, blowsy, milkmaid of a hotel, with all her best
clothes on, perpetually going to a fair."
"I'm not so much re-filling my insulted lungs," said the Philosopher,
"as drawing breaths of relief that I got away without buying a block of
stock in something, or putting my name down to be one of a company for
the development of something else."
"Oh, we were safe enough," the Skeptic declared. "This was a private
dinner with ladies present; the Promoter gave us only a delicate sample
of what he could do.
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