He loved these semi-precious stones because of their unmatchable, translucent green--like the pulp of a grape.

From Burlingame Kitty had learned that Cutty, rather indifferent to women, carried about with him the photographs--large size--of famous professional beauties and a case filled with polished chrysoprase.

He would lay a photograph on a table and adorn the lovely throat with astonishing necklaces and the head with wonderful tiaras, all the while his brain at work with some intricate political puzzle.
And he collected drums.

The walls of his apartment--part of the loft of a midtown office building--were covered with a most startling assortment of drums: drums of war, of the dance, of the temples of the feast, ancient and modern, some of them dreadful looking objects, as Kitty had cause to remember.
Though Cutty had known her father and mother intimately, Kitty was a comparative stranger.

He recollected seeing her perhaps a dozen times.
She had been a shy child, not given to climbing over visitors' knees; not the precocious offspring of the average theatrical mother.