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letters with news of one's friends. Lanny opened one from his father, and exclaimed: "Robbie's

coming to Paris! He's due there now!"

"Oh, dear!" said the wife. She knew what was coming next. "I really ought to see him, Irma.

It's been eight months." "It's been exactly as long since I've seen my mother." "Surely if your

mother were in Paris, I'd be offering to take you." "It'll be so dreadfully lonesome on the yacht,

Lanny!" "I'll take a plane and join you at Lisbon in three or four days. You know Robbie's

been in a crisis and I ought to find out how he's getting along."

Irma gave up, but not without inner revolt. She was going through such a trying ordeal,

and people ought to do everything to make it easier for her. A violent change from

being the glamour girl of Broadway, the observed of all observers, the darling of the

columnists and target of the spotlights—and now to be in exile, almost in jail for all these

months! Would anybody ever appreciate it? Would Baby appreciate it? Irma's

observation of children suggested that Baby probably would not.

She thought of taking a couple of cars and transporting her half of the lactation

apparatus up to Paris. But no, it would upset all the arrangements of the admirable Miss

Severne; Baby might pick up a germ in the streets of a crowded city; it was so much safer

out at sea, where the air was loaded with a stuff called ozone. And there was Rahel, with

whom Irma had agreed to stick it out; knowing it would be hard, she had wanted to tie

herself down, and had made a bargain.

"Another thing," Lanny said; "Zoltan Kertezsi should be in Paris and might help me to

sell a picture or two."

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed the wife. "Do you still want to fool with that business?"

"A little cash would come in handy to both Beauty and me."

"I don't think it's kind of you, Lanny. There's no sense in your bothering to make

money when I have it. If you have any time to sell, do please let me buy it!"

They had talked about this many times. Since Robbie couldn't afford to send Beauty

her thousand dollars a month, Irma insisted upon putting it up. She wanted the life of

Bienvenu to go on exactly as before. The cost was nothing to her, and she liked the

people around her to be happy. She would send money to Lanny's account in Cannes,

and then she didn't want anybody to talk or think about the subject. That her husband

might actually enjoy earning a few thousand dollars by selling Marcel's paintings, or those

of old masters, was something hard for her to make real to herself. It was harder still for

Lanny to explain that he sometimes wanted to do other things than entertain an adored

young wife!

4

I Can Call Spirits

I

FROMthe windows of the Hotel Crillon Lanny Budd had looked out upon quite a lot of

history: the World War beginning, with soldiers bivouacked in the Place de la Concorde; the

war in progress, with enemy planes overhead and anti-aircraft firing; after the armistice, with a

great park of captured German cannon, and May Day mobs being sabered by cuirassiers. In the

hotel had lived and worked a couple of hundred American peace-makers, all of them kind to a

very young secretary-translator and willing to assist with his education. The only trouble was,

they differed so greatly among themselves that Lanny's mind had reached a state of confusion

from which it had not yet recovered.

Now the hotel had been restored to the system of private enter prise in which Robbie Budd so

ardently believed and which he was pleased to patronize regardless of cost. In view of his reduced

circumstances, he might well have gone to a less expensive place, but that would have been to

admit defeat and to declass himself. No, he was still European representative of Budd

Gunmakers, still looking for big deals and certain that Europe was going to need American

weapons before long. Keep your chin up, and make a joke out of the fact that you have lost

five or six million dollars. Everybody knows that you had to be somebody to have that

happen to you.

Here he was, comfortably ensconced in his suite, with a spare room for Lanny; his whisky

and soda and ice early in the morning, his little portable typewriter and papers spread out on

another table. He was in his middle fifties, but looked younger than he had in New York under

the strain of the panic. He had got back his ruddy complexion and well-nourished appearance;

a little bit portly, but still vigorous and ready to tackle the world. Already he was in the midst

of affairs; there was a Rumanian purchasing commission in town, and a couple of Soviet agents—

Robbie grinned as he said that he was becoming quite chummy with the "comrades"; he knew

how to "talk their language," thanks to Lanny's help. He meant, not that he could speak

Russian, but that he could speak Red.

Lanny told the news about the Dingles and the Robins, and Robbie in turn reported on the

family in Newcastle. Amazing the way the head of the Budd tribe was holding on; at the age of

eighty-three he insisted upon knowing every detail of the company's affairs; he sat in his study

and ran the business by telephone. Esther, Lanny's stepmother, was well. "I really think she's

happier since the crash," said the husband. He didn't add: "I have kept my promise to stay out

of the market." Lanny knew he didn't break promises.

They talked about Wall Street, about that "little bull market" which had everybody so stirred

up, a mixture of hope and fear currently known as the "jitters." When the Bessie Budd was

setting out, the market had been booming, and Robbie in a letter had repeated his old formula:

"Don't sell America short." Now stocks were slipping again, business going to pot,

unemployment spreading; but Robbie had to keep up his courage, all America had to hold

itself up by its bootstraps. The most popular song of the moment announced: "Happy days

are here again."

II

They discussed Johannes Robin and his affairs, in which Robbie was deeply interested. He was

going to Berlin on this trip: a subtle change in the relationship of the two associates, for in the

old days it had been Johannes who came to Paris to see Robbie. The Jewish trader was on top;

he hadn't lost any part of his fortune, and wasn't going to. He would never make Robbie Budd's

mistake of being too optimistic about this world, for he had made most of his money by

expecting trouble. Now he had sent a message, by Lanny, that he was going to help Robbie to

come back; but it would have to be

by the same judicious pessimism.

"He's a good sort," said Robbie, English-fashion. He knew, of course, that his old associate

couldn't very well drop him, even if he had wished to, because Hansi and Bess had made them

relatives. Moreover, Johannes was one of those Jews who desire to associate with gentiles and are

willing to pay liberally for it.

Having had long talks with the financier on board the yacht, Lanny could tell what was in his

mind. He considered that Germany was approaching the end of her rope; she couldn't make any

more reparations payments, even if she wished. Taxation had about reached its limits, foreign

credit was drying up, and Johannes couldn't see any chance of Germany's escaping another

bout of inflation. The government was incompetent, also very costly to deal with; that, of

course, was a money-man's polite way of intimating that it was corrupt and that he was