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is London address was the Kellner Hotel, but he never slept there. His secretary would telephone in advance for the Imperial suite on a certain day, and on the evening of that day, when supper was laid for his twenty or thirty guests, and the specially hired orchestra was tuning up, he would appear, a stout, flaxen-haired man in horn-rimmed glasses. The uncharitable said his flaxen hair was a wig, which may or may not have been true.
He was perfectly tailored. He spoke in a high, falsetto voice, had a trick of clicking his heels and kissing the hands of his lady guests which was very Continental.
His guests were hand-picked. He chose--or Mike chose for him--the smaller theatrical fry; members of the chorus, small part actresses, an obscure singer or two.
Once Mike had suggested a brighter kind of party. Mr Wirth was shocked.
'I want nothing fast,' he said.
He loved adulation--and had his fill of it. He was a generous spender, a giver of expensive presents; people living on the verge of poverty might be excused a little flattering.
You could not gate-crash one of Mr Washington Wirth's parties, invitations to which came in the shape of a small oblong badge, not unlike the badge worn by the ladies in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot, on which the name of the invited guest was written. This the recipient wore; it served a double purpose, for it enabled Mr Wirth to read and address each of his guests by her name.
Mary Lane was well aware that the invitation was no tribute to her own eminence.
'I suppose if I had been a really important guest I shouldn't have been invited?' she said.
Mike smiled good-naturedly.
'You are important, Mary--the most important person here. The old boy wanted to know you.'
'Who is he?'
Mike shook his head. 'He's got all the money in the world,' he said.
She laughed. Mary Lane was very lovely when she laughed.
She was conscious that Washington Wirth, albeit occupied with the cooing attention of two b