Chicago, I am told, they are respectable fathers of families who dine at home every night, and eat breakfast across the table from their wives. Those middle-western group breakfasts! And if a word is used that the very children speak in the streets of Vienna, these Chicago business men blush.
Why, Paul! Campaspe cried, you must feel about Chicago business men the way Laura feels about Jews. When did you meet these monsters?
Meet them! Paul shrieked, waving his jade cigarette-holder about in the air. Meet them! How did you get such an idea? Meet them, indeed!
The Duke, slightly bewildered by this discourse, attempted to pull the conversation back into its proper channel.
You know perfectly well what I mean, he said. I want a reaction. I don't want a lot of b-b-b-b-bored lollers out in front.
You'd better ask the Brooklyn Elks, Paul suggested.
Or the Campfire Girls, put in Campaspe.
Or the Academy of Arts and Letters, alternated Paul.
I don't think, the Duke asseverated solemnly, that you and Paul appreciate your great country. The Hackensack meadows always remind me of the Roman Campagna, and yet I find that no one drives about in them.
