I asked him if he had ever gone back to the Communists. “No,” he said, “but I hate the upper classes more than ever. Harvard College for Boys teems with them. I am employed by one of them, as I told you, a party named Morgan. I have tutored him in German for two years and I bleed him of a great deal of money and learn twice as much German as he does. But this is the kind of thing he’ll do: we’ll be translating along—he’s a moron, of course—and he’ll stop suddenly and say, ‘Beg pardon, baby, I’ve got to make a phone call.’ He always calls me ‘baby.’ He will call the air line and say, ‘This is Morgan. I want a ticket on the five o’clock plane and I want to be booked through to Las Vegas. Put it on my charge account, will you?’ His charge account, mind you. We go on with the translation—and you couldn’t believe his illiteracy—and the telephone will ring. It will be a dame and Morgan will say, ‘Honey, I love you, I love you, but right this minute I’ve got to hop a plane for the Golden West. I’ll be back day after tomorrow. I’ve got ten drunks from Metro Goldwyn Mayer at my place and I’ve got to go out and police the joint.’ We start out again and maybe do one, maybe two paragraphs of Immensee and his door-bell rings. His butler (butler, I said) comes in and says there is a little lady outside. ‘Well, baby, let’s let the Hun go for today. I’ve got to lay this little lady before I hop a plane. Come around next Tuesday. Tell my man to fix you a drink.’ Need I assure you that I do not tell that fat, patronizing penguin that I want a drink?”

With some effort, I brought out, “Do you ever see any of the little ladies?”