“Smedley is a possum. He is a swamp possum.”
Alex knew nothing about Smedley, so he thought. Running into him in the lobby had been Alex’s introduction to the guy, so he thought.
Alex knew of the Wickersham family, sure, but he’d never guessed the ugly, dirty, stinking and unfriendly guy he’d had the run in with in the lobby was a Wickersham.
There’d been no clue Smedley was a Wickersham. Every clue headedly pointed in the other direction. Clearly Smedley was a no-count, low down, poverty-stricken slob, not old money.
Money is green, and old money is green, and maybe more so, if, in becoming old the shade of green is puce. If puce can be accepted as a shade of green, a vivid shade of green, and not a putrefying or atrophying sad shade.
Smedley was green — gangrene.
Eve was green — a neophyte shade of green, the spring green of a young and inexperienced courtesan.
Alex was not green. As we’ve remarked before, Alex was a very rich shade of velvet sheen chocolate brown. His pelt was, and his pelt covered him head to tail.
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