Anthony's calculations showed that their
capital would last about seven years longer. So Gloria's heart was very
bitter, for in one week, on a prolonged hysterical party during which
Anthony whimsically divested himself of coat, vest, and shirt in a
theatre and was assisted out by a posse of ushers, they spent twice what
the gray squirrel coat would have cost.
It was November, Indian summer rather, and a warm, warm night--which was
unnecessary, for the work of the summer was done. Babe Ruth had smashed
the home-run record for the first time and Jack Dempsey had broken Jess
Willard's cheek-bone out in Ohio. Over in Europe the usual number of
children had swollen stomachs from starvation, and the diplomats were at
their customary business of making the world safe for new wars. In New
York City the proletariat were being "disciplined," and the odds on
Harvard were generally quoted at five to three. Peace had come down in
earnest, the beginning of new days.
Up in the bedroom of the apartment on Fifty-seventh Street Gloria lay
upon her bed and tossed from side to side, sitting up at intervals to
throw off a superfluous cover and once asking Anthony, who was lying
awake beside her, to bring her a glass of ice-water.
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