“I regret I must say good night,” she apologized. “I have a rather big day tomorrow. I’m meeting Belle da Costa Greene.”
“Ah, Mr. Morgan’s personal librarian,” I said. “Please send her my regards.”
“Yes, I certainly will. It’s a rare thing to find another woman in the book business. I’m rather excited to meet her.”
“I can imagine,” I said, keeping my thoughts about how Morgan had outbid my grandfather at several auctions to myself. Still, he’d been generous to endorse my membership to the Grolier Club, New York’s oldest society for book connoisseurs.
“But I will see you again in a few weeks when you come to London.”
Uncharacteristically, I decided to go out on a bold limb. “Is there any chance I could convince you to come to Delmonico’s with me tomorrow night? It’s a shame what I had planned got canceled because of the snow and my train.”
Her eyes drifted toward the window outside. The snow had tapered off and now only a few flakes fell from the dark sky onto the sidewalk, melting as they landed.
“I’m afraid I have another appointment planned.”
“Of course. Your schedule must be quite full.”
She seemed to still be considering the invitation.
“Well, perhaps Icouldmove a few things around in the morning. I’ve never been to Delmonico’s before and your invitation is rather enticing.”
I put on my hat and grinned.
“Mr. Widener, your confidence that I’ll be able to arrange things to accommodate you is enviable,” she said.
“Well, I’m a book lover,” I reminded her. “And you’re coming to dinner with me, Miss Lippoldt, is the only satisfying ending to the story that I can imagine.”
I waited for Ada at the back corner table of Delmonico’s. She arrived dressed in a plum-colored velvet jacket and a cream silk dress skimming her delicate silhouette beneath. She wore no jewelry roped around her neck or from her ears. While the few other ladies in the dining room were adorned with beads and ostrich feathers, Ada radiated in her elegant simplicity and exuded an inner confidence that set her apart from those draped in pearls.
The maître d’ escorted her over to my table and pulled out her chair.
“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” she apologized. “Work was relentless today, but I negotiated the purchase of something rather important that we acquired in the Huth sale back in November,” she beamed. “Mr. Quaritch will be so pleased.”
“Well, now I’m intrigued,” I said as I put my menu to the side. “Tempting me like that is torture! Do spill the details,”
I said playfully.
“It would be premature,” she said, laughing. Her eyes flashed like two shiny copper pennies in the candlelight. “But hopefully soon.”
“Well, still, we must order some champagne and toast you!”
“Such an extravagance is hardly necessary.” Despite her protests, I could sense she was delighted by the prospect.
I flagged down the waiter and ordered us a bottle.
“If you can’t tell me what book it is or who has purchased it,” I teased, as our glasses were filled, “can you at least quote me one of the lines from its pages?”
“Ah, another game!” she said and giggled.
“Of course,” I said, delighting in all of the fun we were having.
“‘Some books are meant to be tasted,’” she said. “‘Others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested.’”
Her eyes were full of mischief as she waited to see if I knew the answer.
I lifted my glass and took the sight of her in, like one thirsty swallow.
“Let us make a little toast to Mr. Francis Bacon then,”
