As he was leaving—a notable figure in a suit such as never entered Compson’s, and a straw hat, and a walking stick—he was met by Ritchie coming in. Ritchie was dressed in threadbare serge, and wore brown shoes, which he had attempted to make black. Bradley went by without a sign—not by intention, for he would have saluted his benefactor joyously if he had known him; but Ritchie, to him, was exactly like countless others, and quite indistinguishable.
Of course Ritchie took this apparent neglect as a personal insult. He sat down at his usual table, burning with shame and fury. When Madeline approached, he said truculently:
“I suppose you don’t want to go to the movies to-morrow night?”
It was an announcement, rather than a question.
“Well, I’m sorry,” replied Madeline, “only I got a date.”
“Him, isn’t it? All right! Go ahead! That’s just like a woman,” said Ritchie. “If a feller has good clothes and a fine physique, what do they care if he drinks, or anything?”
“I wasn’t aware I was requesting your valuable advice, Mr. Ritchie,” observed Madeline frigidly.
“I wasn’t giving it,” said he. “All I was saying was, women are all for show. They never see below the surface. Anyway, I’m going to Chicago the end of this week. I’m sick of New York!”
“My! Poor New York!” murmured she.
“I’m sick of the girls here,” he went on vehemently. “Just a lot of jazz babies—that’s what they are!”