Sullivan's sting

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He was a perfect gentleman, attentive, eager to please. There was something balletic in his movements: a swoop to light Mrs. Winslow's cigarette with a gold Dupont, a bow to place the black mink stole about her fleshy shoulders, a pirouette as the maitre d' came bustling up.

"Was everything satisfactory, Mr. Rathbone?"

"Everything was excellent, Felix," he said, and pressed a folded twenty into the waiting palm.

''The zabaglione was divine," Mrs. Birdie Winslow said. "Something extra, wasn't there?"

"Just a few drops of rum, madam. For flavor."

"Marvelous idea. We must come again."

"Please do," Felix said, escorting them to the door. "On Friday we shall have baked pompano with a champagne sauce."

Outside, they stood a moment staring up at a lucid sky sown with rows of stars. But the easterly wind had an edge, and Mrs. Winslow wrapped her stole tighter. Rathbone slipped an arm lightly about her thick waist.

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