'Arbmishel and Arreevadon. You know them, yes, what, no, perhaps?'
'I've played with Abe Mitchell often, and I was partnered with Harry
Vardon in last year's Open.'
The great Russian uttered a cry that shook the chandelier.
'You play in ze Open? Why,' he demanded reproachfully of Mrs.
Smethurst, 'was I not been introducted to this young man who play in
opens?'
'Well, really,' faltered Mrs. Smethurst. 'Well, the fact is, Mr.
Brusiloff----'
She broke off. She was unequal to the task of explaining, without
hurting anyone's feelings, that she had always regarded Cuthbert as a
piece of cheese and a blot on the landscape.
'Introduct me!' thundered the Celebrity.
'Why, certainly, certainly, of course. This is Mr.----.'
She looked appealingly at Cuthbert.
'Banks,' prompted Cuthbert.
'Banks!' cried Vladimir Brusiloff. 'Not Cootaboot Banks?'
'Is your name Cootaboot?' asked Mrs. Smethurst, faintly.
'Well, it's Cuthbert.'
'Yais! Yais! Cootaboot!' There was a rush and swirl, as the
effervescent Muscovite burst his way through the throng and rushed to
where Cuthbert sat. He stood for a moment eyeing him excitedly, then,
stooping swiftly, kissed him on both cheeks before Cuthbert could get
his guard up. 'My dear young man, I saw you win ze French Open. Great!
Great! Grand! Superb! Hot stuff, and you can say I said so! Will you
permit one who is but eighteen at Nijni-Novgorod to salute you once
more?'
And he kissed Cuthbert again. Then, brushing aside one or two
intellectuals who were in the way, he dragged up a chair and sat down.
'You are a great man!' he said.
'Oh, no,' said Cuthbert modestly.
'Yais! Great. Most! Very! The way you lay your approach-putts dead from
anywhere!'
'Oh, I don't know.'
Mr. Brusiloff drew his chair closer.
'Let me tell you one vairy funny story about putting. It was one day I
play at Nijni-Novgorod with the pro. against Lenin and Trotsky, and
Trotsky had a two-inch putt for the hole. But, just as he addresses the
ball, someone in the crowd he tries to assassinate Lenin with a
rewolwer--you know that is our great national sport, trying to
assassinate Lenin with rewolwers--and the bang puts Trotsky off his
stroke and he goes five yards past the hole, and then Lenin, who is
rather shaken, you understand, he misses again himself, and we win the
hole and match and I clean up three hundred and ninety-six thousand
roubles, or fifteen shillings in your money. Some gameovitch! And now
let me tell you one other vairy funny story----'
Desultory conversation had begun in murmurs over the rest of the room,
as the Wood Hills intellectuals politely endeavoured to conceal the
fact that they realized that they were about as much out of it at this
re-union of twin souls as cats at a dog-show. From time to time they
