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In his huge and lavish Malacanan Palace, upon which he has spent huge sums, sat little "King" Quezon last week. Sixty-two, he still goes dancing occasionally at the Santa Ana cabaret in Manila, an old haunt of his. He has lost none of his love for gaudy gaiety: his clothes are the wonder of the Islands. Frequently he dons jodhpurs for the office, an admiral's uniform for a cruise on his splendid white yacht, once the property of Oilman Edward Doheny. It is a legend in Manila that he planned to have a guard of honor for the Malacanan dressed in uniforms copied after those worn at Buckingham Palace, dropped the idea only after earnest advice from friends. He is the adored father of two grown-up daughters. Maria Aurora ("Baby") and Zenaida ("Mini"), and a small son. Manuel Jr. ("Nonong"). Mrs. Quezon, dignified and portly, keeps matron-mum.
Teetering back & forth in his brocaded swivel chair, strolling on his balcony overlooking the Pasig River, Manuel Quezon last week could see no serious opposition at home. He had long since danced rings around his onetime friend and later rival, Sergio Osmena. But from outside, the threatening forces crowded—forces which might also concern the U. S. The question an anxious State Department pondered was where Tango Dancer Quezon, with the Philippines in his arms, would whirl next.