“You mean beauty’s in the eye of the beholder, and the angel is all in the eye of the mother. If you were a painter, Fred, you’d paint mothers with angels’ eyes holding imps in their laps. Me, I’ll stick to the Old Masters and the cherubs.”
Mr. Kinney looked at him musingly. “Somebody’s eyes must have been pretty angelic,” he said, “if they’ve been persuading you that Georgie Minafer is a cherub!”
“They are,” said Morgan heartily. “They’re more angelic than ever.” And as a new flourish of music sounded overhead he threw away his cigarette, and jumped up briskly. “Good-bye, I’ve got this dance with her.”
“With whom?”
“With Isabel!”
The grizzled Mr. Kinney affected to rub his eyes. “It startles me, your jumping up like that to go and dance with Isabel Amberson! Twenty years seem to have passed—but have they? Tell me, have you danced with poor old Fanny, too, this evening?”
“Twice!”
“My Lord!” Kinney groaned, half in earnest. “Old times starting all over again! My Lord!”
“Old times?” Morgan laughed gaily from the doorway. “Not a bit! There aren’t any old times. When times are gone they’re not old, they’re dead! There aren’t any times but new times!”
And he vanished in such a manner that he seemed already to have begun dancing.