*****

At 5 o’clock I treated myself to the luxury of hot and cold water flowing on demand into my bathroom sink basin and washed my face. It refreshed me, and I spoke words of encouragement to my reflection in the mirror. The self-support did not last long. I simply could not concentrate on the newspaper and paced the room. I was meeting the second son of the Scottish Earl of Airlie in a bar.

At 5:55 I hurried down the stairs, through the lobby and into the dining room. Four floor-to-ceiling mirrors castes light on the 24 black walnut tables, each ready to seat six. Three chandeliers with 12 burners each were lit and waiting for the evening. The bar top had a large selection of cigars, and Lyulph Ogilvy smoked one. He wore clothes tailored, perhaps by Mortimer, but a bit worn around the cuffs and collars. A short man with a torso the shape of an egg, a round face and short cropped hair stood talking with him. He said, “Lord you have to get over it.”

“Harry you can’t lay a garden out with a T-square. The new Civic Center Park needs to look natural like the wildflowers and trees in the mountains. It should be restful for the eye in a city of straight, structural lines of steel and stone.”

“Never happen. The wealthy resident donors want the sidewalks between The Greek Theater and the Voorhies Memorial in straight lines. The city will plant everything along them.”

“Bully for them. They want to paint the nude statues too, as if a coat of paint will make them less nude. One looks, blushes and runs away from the ridiculous effort.”

“I read your article.” Then the short man bobbed his head toward me.

The tall man turned, looked me up and down and said, “Julius Brandon, I presume.”

“Yes sir.”

I handed him my introduction letter. He stuffed it into his Edwardian suit coat pocket.

“You resemble your Uncle Thomas.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve heard much about you.” He noticed my cringe and continued, “One can’t hold a man sowing his wild oats against him. What’ll it be? A whiskey and a cigar?”

“Just a beer, sir.”

“Wise, it will help you go the distance. This is my editor at the Denver Post, Harry Tammen.”

“Delighted sir, with your acquaintance.”

Mr. Tammen waved at the bartender and shouted, “George, bring this boy a shot of whiskey too. Maybe it will mellow some of his formalness.”

We ate and drank all night. I have never seen a man consume so much whiskey and remain standing like a gentleman holding his first glass. Harry Tammen held on to the bar for stability. Wobbly, I took the lift or elevator, a new American word, back to my suite.