The Hunt

“A fine time to get cozy,” he said, holding up his sticky hands. He twisted his head around and kissed her. “You’re sure you don’t miss the old days?”

“This year there are thirty-eight or thirty-nine plus guests,” she said. “It’ll be a zoo.”

“I would really have fit in well,” said Keegan. “Walking around in my knickers swatting golf balls.”

She looked at him slyly.

“You could flirt with the ladies.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“There’s one, Lady Penelope Traynor. She’d catch your eye.”

“What’s her father do, supply gold to the treasury?”

“He’s a journalist. She travels with him everywhere. If he weren’t so old I’d suspect incest.”

“You really are bitchy at times, Vannie.”

“I know,” she said with a laugh. “Anyway, you wouldn’t have a chance with her, she’s found a beau.” She arched her eyebrows and looked down her nose at Keegan, “John Ward Allenbee, the Third.”

“The Third, no less.”

“They make a grand couple, a union conceived in boredom. That cocktail party the other night cured me forever. It was so boring it was sinful.”

“I thought they were old friends of yours.”

“She is. . . well, not an old friend. She and her father have been going down to the island for years. Usually as guests of Grant Peabody. Everybody coddles old Willoughby because of that column he writes in the newspaper. She’s quite a dish, but a very cold dish.”

“What’s her old man’s name?”

“Willoughby. Sir Colin Willoughby.”

He went to the sink and washed off his hands.

“Hell, I know them,” he said. “Met them once.. . my God, it would have been the summer of ‘34. Longchamp racetrack, I think. Her husband was a soldier.. . no, he was a test pilot. Got killed.”

“That’s right, she’s a widow. Well anyway, it just isn’t like the old days.”

“The old days? You just turned thirty, my dear, how old can the days be?”

“Oh, you know what I mean. The old gang was fun. You would have liked them. From the time I was six until I was sixteen, it was a wonderful trip. We went for Thanksgiving and came back at Easter. Had our own little schoolhouse, our own teachers. Nobody was ever in a hurry. Everybody was friendly and got along. Oh, they used to have silly little spats. I remember once, Uncle Billy and Vincent got in this awful argument because Vincent parked his yacht in front of the Vanderbilt place and spoiled the view. Silly stuff like that.”

“Uh huh.”

“You know, Vannie, I keep forgetting how stinking rich you are.

“Look who’s talking!”

“No, I’m talking about rich-rich. The Astors, the Vanderbilts, those guys own the part of the world with the grass. And your old man’s one of them. How many of these rich guys were in the ‘old gang’ as you put it?”

“Well, let’s see, there was Cornelius Lee, Mr. Morgan. .

“J. P. Morgan?”

“Junior,” she nodded.

“Jesus! How about King Midas, did he drop by?”

She giggled. “No, but there were the Goodyears, Ed Gould, Jr., Charlie Maurice, the Rockefellers, Mr. Jim Hill . .

“Plus these royal social climbers. Lady Penelope and Whatsisname the Third.”

“Hardly social climbers, my dear. Willoughby’s a Knight, Kee.”

“Hell, half the plumbers in England are Knights,” Keegan said.

“Well, I will say they were both incorrigible name-droppers. And the new fiance isn’t much better.”

“Really? What kind of names does he drop?”

“How about the Prince of Wales.”

“You mean Edward, the one that quit?”

“Yes.”

“How does one go about dropping the name of the former King of England?”

“We were admiring his cigarette lighter and he casually pointed out that it was a gift from the prince.”

“What kind of lighters does Prince Edward give out as gifts?” Keegan asked, sticking his hands back into the stuffing.

“Gold, of course.”