Free Aurora Dawn by Herman Wouk Page B

explores no such dark corners of experience.
    It was not long before the conversation disclosed that both the painter and Andrew were to meet with Talmadge Marquis shortly
     after lunch–Wilde to observe his subject at work, and obtain what he called “the nasty dimension of truth” for his portrait;
     our hero, of course, to report on his foray to the valley of the Faithful Shepherd. They agreed to share a taxi to the Empire
     State Building, where, cutting a cross-section two stories thick across the upper part of the tower, the great enterprise
     of Aurora Dawn hummed.
    While Andrew ate, the others were entertained by a harangue on the beauty of young love and the desirability of the immediate
     retirement of Honey and her betrothed from New York, of which Michael Wilde delivered himself without interruption, except
     as he paused to greet by name several wealthy, celebrated, or notorious people as they moved past his table. Since the reader
     is acquainted with his views on this subject, neither conscientiousness nor truth require the reproduction of his words, for
     which the laboring author is grateful.
    The sermon was choked off by the arrival at the table of an anecdotal newspaper columnist, one Milton Jaeckel, who lived at
     the time by amassing and reprinting the witty remarks of well-known people. The value of a quotation being, for his purpose,
     always in direct proportion to the notoriety of the originator, it was often in inverse ratio to the content of wit, an excellent
     thing, since it saved the columnist’s readers from puzzlement. This man of letters frequented the half-dozen dining places
     mentioned above, scurrying around the whole circle thrice during twenty-four hours: at dinner, after the theater, and in the
     early morning hours. He was rarely seen by day, but the feast of St. Patrick had altered his habits and activated him this
     noon. At night, the casual stroller along Broadway, taking pleasure in the agreeable contrast of the constellation of Orion
     and the electric cinema displays, would probably be startled and possibly knocked over by this pale, bird-visaged, stooping
     creature, scuttling through the gloom from one restaurant to another as though pursued by a fiend.
    It was this same littérateur who, espying Michael Wilde, hurried to the table, drew up a chair, sat down without an invitation,
     and, pulling out a worn paper notebook, said, “Got something for me, Mike? Hello, Honey. Hello, Mr. English.”–Nobody at the
     table seemed in the least surprised by this proceeding. Everything in the world is strange; singularity is only a matter of
     insufficient repetition.–Michael Wilde, hardly pausing for breath, switched from his exhortation of the lovers to a series
     of anecdotes about himself, one of which candor requires that we set down. A publisher, it appears, had asked the painter
     to write a history of American art. “You’re too late,” Wilde quoted himself as answering. “I have already sold the rights
     to my autobiography.” The columnist’s pencil swooped at this one; then he stood up, muttered an excuse, and vanished.
    Luncheon over, the party rose from the table. Laura, with the utmost decorum, managed to find her way to Andrew’s side and
     slip her fingers lightly through his, and out again. There were at least three men in the room who could have, and gladly
     would have, given a sum in excess of Andy’s boldest aims for that touch and what it implied. Andrew was very pleased by it,
     to be sure, and whispered in return the one word, “Success!”–“Wonderful, come home to dinner,” said Laura quietly. Andrew
     nodded. They walked out into the sunny canyon of windows and stone along which March was doggedly fighting its cold and windy
     way from the river. March came into Fifty-second Street like a lion at the bank of the Hudson, but, impeded by the buildings,
     usually was a very tired lamb at Fifth Avenue. This, however, was a vigorous March day,