That which they had just discussed had been uncommon in all
respects; Maitland's scheme of courses and his specification as to
details had roused the admiration of the Primordial's chef and put
him on his mettle. He had outdone himself in his efforts to do
justice to Mr. Maitland's genius; and the Primordial in its deadly
conservatism remains to this day one of the very few places in New
York where good, sound cooking is to be had by the initiate.
Therefore Bannerman sucked thoughtfully at his cigar and thought
fondly of a salad that had been to ordinary salads as his 80-H.-P.
car was to an electric buckboard. While Maitland, with all time at
his purchase, idly flicked the ash from his cigarette and followed
his attorney's meditative gaze out through the window.
Because of the heat the curtains were looped back, and there was
nothing to obstruct the view. Madison Square lay just over the
sill, a dark wilderness of foliage here and there made livid green
by arc-lights. Its walks teemed with humanity, its benches were
crowded. Dimly from its heart came the cool plashing of the
fountain, in lulls that fell unaccountably in the roaring rustle
of restless feet. Over across, Broadway raised glittering walls of
glass and stone; and thence came the poignant groan and rumble of
surface cars crawling upon their weary and unvarying rounds.
And again Maitland thought of the City, and of Destiny, and of the
grey girl the silhouette of whose hand was imprisoned beneath the
brass bowl on his study desk.
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