Their satin-shod feet had high sharp insteps in films
of black lace and their fingers glittered with prismatic stones.
Bernard was in front with the chauffeur, and Frederick Rathe occupied a
small seat at the knees of the three others. He had not made his money,
as had August and Bernard, but inherited it with a huge brewery.
Frederick was younger than the other men too; but his manner was, if
anything, curter. He said things about the present war that made even
August Turnbull uneasy.
He was an unusual youth, not devoted to sports and convivial pleasures
--as any one might infer, viewing his heavy frame and wealth--but
something of a reader. He quoted fragments from philosophical books
about the will-to-power and the _Uebermensch_ that stuck like
burrs in August Turnbull's memory, furnishing him with labels, backing,
for many of his personally evolved convictions and experience.
They were soon descending the steps to the anteroom of the cafe, where
the men left their hats and sticks. As they entered the brilliantly
lighted space beyond a captain hurried forward. "Good evening,
gentlemen," he said servilely; "Mr. Turnbull----"
He ushered them to a table by the rope of an open floor for dancing and
removed a reserved card. There he stood attentively with a waiter at
his shoulder.
"What will you have?" Frederick Rathe asked generally. "For me nothing
but beer. Not the filthy American stuff." He turned to the servants.
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