"I walked up here with Mr. Dane," he observed, after a thoughtful interval. "What an American he is!"
"American?"
"Yes. No other country but yours can produce such people. France tries it, and fails. A Frenchman takes his frivolity in earnest. Mr. Dane is like that little Scherzo by Faulkes, the one that frisks on and on, and all of a sudden comes to an end with a loud Ha ha over its own absurdity. Mr. Dane delights in his own talk, just as you delight in your singing."
"He is not self-conscious," Thayer objected quickly.
"Neither are you. Each of you has a gift, and you each delight in using it. That is not saying that you either of you regard it as the only gift in the world. Instead, having it, you make the most of it, to let it grow and to put it in the way of giving pleasure to other people."
Thayer smiled, in spite of himself.
"To paraphrase you, Arlt, what a German you are! Nobody else would attempt to philosophize concerning Bobby Dane."
"Why not? He is worth it, for he has other gifts than his wit."
"Did he say anything about Lorimer?" Thayer asked abruptly.
"He spoke of him once or twice."