instantly, for he was a
fan of Miss Eden's and for a long time had yearned to star her in a
remake of _Vanity Fair_. "Why didn't you bring her along? We could
have--"

"Nonsense!" St. Cyr shouted. "Do not discuss this matter yet, Tolliver."

"She's down at Laguna," Erika explained. "Be quiet, St. Cyr! I won't--"

A knock at the door interrupted her. Martin hurried to open it and as he
had expected encountered a waiter with a tray.

"Quick work," he said urbanely, accepting the huge, coldly sweating
Napoleon in a bank of ice. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

St. Cyr's booming shouts from behind him drowned out whatever remark the
waiter may have made as he received a bill from Martin and withdrew,
looking nauseated.

"No, no, no, no," St. Cyr was roaring. "Tolliver, we can get Gloria and
keep this writer too, not that he is any good, but I have spent already
thirteen weeks training him in the St. Cyr approach. Leave it to me. In
Mixo-Lydia we handle--"

Erika's attractive mouth was opening and shutting, her voice unheard in
the uproar. St. Cyr could keep it up indefinitely, as was well known in
Hollywood. Martin sighed, lifted the brimming Napoleon and sniffed
delicately as he stepped backward toward his chair. When his heel
touched it, he tripped with the utmost grace and savoir-faire, and very
deftly emptied the Helena Glinsak, ale, honey, creme de menthe, ice and
all, over St. Cyr's capacious front.

St. Cyr's bellow broke the microphone.

* * * * *

Martin had composed his invention carefully. The nauseous brew combined
the maximum elements of wetness, coldness, stickiness and pungency.

The drenched St. Cyr, shuddering violently as the icy beverage deluged
his legs, snatched out his handkerchief and mopped in vain. The
handkerchief merely stuck to his trousers, glued there by twelve jiggers
of honey. He reeked of peppermint.

"I suggest we adjourn to the commissary," Martin said fastidiously. "In
some private booth we can go on with this discussion away from the--the
rather overpowering smell of peppermint."

"In Mixo-Lydia," St. Cyr gasped, sloshing in his shoes as he turned
toward Martin, "in Mixo-Lydia we throw to the dogs--we boil in
oil--we--"

"And next time," Martin said, "please don't joggle my elbow when I'm
holding a Helena Glinska. It's most annoying."

St. Cyr drew a mighty breath, rose to his full height--and then
subsided. St. Cyr at the moment looked like a