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“Couldn’t locate my vests,” he said cordially. “That blamed valet took both my vests. See?”

He exposed the shameful overexpanse of his starched shirt.

“I beg your pardon?” said the young man, looking up with a start.

“My vests,” repeated Mr. Bushmill with less gusto—“lost my vests.”

The young man considered.

“I haven’t seen them,” he said.

“Oh, not here!” exclaimed Bushmill. “Upstairs.”

“Ask Jack,” suggested the young man and waved his hand toward the bar.

Among our deficiencies as a race is the fact that we have no respect for the contemplative mood. Bushmill sat down, asked the young man to have a drink, obtained finally the grudging admission that he would have a milk shake; and after explaining the vest matter in detail, tossed his business card across the table. He was not the frock-coated-and-impressive type of millionaire which has become so frequent since the war. He was rather the 1910 model—a sort of cross between Henry VIII and “our Mr. Jones will be in Minneapolis on Friday.” He was much louder and more provincial and warm-hearted than the new type.