virtuosity, he reflected afterwards, as he mused shamefacedly on his unmanageable body.
In the club car Denis Blair burst breathlessly into the relation of a lengthy story about how he had got into a jam with a girl—he called her a broad—and how his wife's suspicions had been awakened. Trouble loomed ahead. He wanted advice. At least he said he wanted advice. Actually he wanted nothing of the sort, Ambrose realized, recognizing the characteristic manner of the male who seizes any excuse to boast about the number of women who are infatuated with him.
As Denis concluded his tale, Abel Morris approached with his flask of Bourbon and the ensuing introductions furnished Ambrose a convenient escape from the ostensible necessity for comment. After a drink of Bourbon, however, Denis told the story all over again for the benefit of the Kansas City manufacturer. He belonged to that group of human beings who speak more freely to strangers than to friends, as if saying a thing once didn't matter.
Abel Morris regarded him with great earnestness. I'd clear out of it and tell my wife the truth, he said.
I can't do that, Denis protested. I can't sell out the frail.
