effort to speak, I question whether I want him to come back.
This time Ambrose drank his cognac straight from the bottle.
How's Mrs. Starling? he inquired.
Mrs. Starling! Mama? I bare my soul to you, rip open its last secret chamber, and you ask me how is my Mama! Ambrose, have you no pity?
Afterwards Ambrose recalled that Imperia had never before appeared so beautiful to him. Her eyes were moist with tears. Her round bosoms rose and fell rhythmically. He was ultimately convinced that her artificial moments were her most splendid, but where did artifice begin and nature end? Cognac, cocktails, champagne, and emotion rendered him incapable of analysis.
Miss Starling . . . he began.
Imperia, please, she prompted him.
Imperia, he continued, I'll be your friend at L.L.B. I'll be your friend.
Ah, I knew I could rely on your great heart.
The tears gushed down Imperia's cheeks as she flung herself at Ambrose's feet in a pretty gesture of gratitude. He recalled that some one had informed him that she was never obliged to rely on glycerine when a script demanded tears.
