Smith of Flodin Street That was a beautiful night—damn it! The rain and the fog had disappeared entirely, and the sky was so full of moon and stars that it looked like the ceiling of a planetarium. About nine o’clock I snared a symphony concert out of the maze of junk on the radio, and Miss Marvin rewarded me by yawning, rising, and saying: “Well, if we must have our culture, I’d much rather take mine in bed.” She went upstairs. I glanced at Standish and he said with a dubious shake of his head: “Well, all right, Cardin, but I think it’s fantastic.” He really looked a lot like me when he put my coat and hat on. My clothes always look a lot like me, which is no compliment to my tailor. Standish turned the coat collar up and the hat brim down, shoved his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders to give them the Cardin slouch, and I nodded my approval. “I give you fair warning,” he said, “a little of this sort of thing goes a long way with me. If nothing happens in an hour or so, to the devil with it!”
