However that might have been, there was enough that was picturesque and one felt sure that one was really in an environment of the bobbed hair and maiden names for wives—that is, assuming that the words maiden and wives were still in the vocabulary.
"All parlor socialists?" I inquired, looking about.
"Have your little joke," frowned Belle. "We all have to, I suppose. But really, down here, after all, there are people who think, who do things."
I had been waiting for that expression, "do things." They all "do things" down in Greenwich Village, even if it is only to compose music for the zither or publish one's own amateur magazine on butcher paper from hand-set type. Evidently Belle took the Village more or less seriously, after all.
"Besides," she faltered, "there are no parlor socialists, any more, anyhow. That belongs to the old muck-raking magazine days."
"I see—limousine liberals now—or boudoir Bolsheviki."
"Maybe you'd better eat," suggested Belle, sarcastically.
"It's a tea-room," I parried, glancing down at the menu. "I suppose it's orange pekoe—although they don't seem to be drinking it. Perhaps they're all smoking it. Now that we're all supposed to be so good, I hear that tobacco will be replaced by dried powdered tea leaves and coffee grounds. They say a caffein jag or a thein jag has merits. Passing by the paraldehyde cocktail, what's good?"
Belle's good humor was restored, and with her help I managed to order everything from soup to nuts—and I am sure that there were a good many fugitives from the squirrels in the room, whether from up or down town.
I was really enjoying myself, so much so that for the moment I almost forgot the purpose of our visit, when it was recalled to me by Belle, who spoke in French to the waiter, rather gross and greasy but answering to the compensating name of Hyacinthe.