For fifteen years I've kept my hideous secret
well. If it becomes public now ..."
Peter Kenny laughed in spite of his pain.
"I'll keep your secret, too," he volunteered, "since you feel that way
about it.... But, I say: what have you been doing with yourself
since--since--" He stammered.
"Since the fall of the House of Sybarite?"
"Yes. I didn't know you were in New York, even."
"Your mother and Mae Alys knew it--but kept it quiet, the same as me,"
said the little man.
"But--well--what _have_ you been doing, then?"
"Going to and fro like a raging lion--more or less--seeking what I
might devour."
"And the devourings have been good, eh? You're high-spirited enough."
"I think," said P. Sybarite quietly--"I may say--though you can't see
it--that my present smile would, to a shrewd observer, seem to
indicate I'd swallowed a canary-bird ... a nice, fat, golden
canary-bird!" he repeated, smacking his lips with unction.
"You talk as if you'd swallowed a dictagraph," said Peter Kenny.
"It's my feeling," sighed P. Sybarite. "But yourself? Let's see; when
I saw you last you were the only authentic child pest of your day and
generation--six or seven at most. How long have you been out of
college?"
"A year--not quite."
"And sporting bachelor rooms of your own!"
"I'm of age. Besides, if you must know, mother and Mae Alys are both
dotty on the society game, and I'm not.
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