In spite of himself, he was mollified. He glanced at her covertly. She was quite as lovely and disturbing as ever.
“Well,” he said, “of course I got to read. I want to get on. I’m making twenty-seven a week now, and more when there’s overtime. I spend a good lot on those correspondence courses, and the Coyote Club and all; but I guess I could do without them, if I felt like it.”
“I’m not going to take that job,” said Madeline suddenly. “I wouldn’t—not for anything. I guess I’ve had enough of that[Pg 101] kind of people—all that drinking and all. I’d never get on with that kind!”
“Well, twenty-seven a week, clear—” said Ritchie.
The collapse of castles in the air doesn’t make a sound. Down came the magnificent edifice of Everard Ritchie’s ambitions, and the airy palace of Madeline’s dreams. In their place was instantaneously erected a three-room flat in a respectable quarter.
Their hands met, but not their eyes. They were timid lovers; but by that handclasp they could say all they wished.
“Those people just make me sick,” said Madeline. “You ought to have seen them dancing out at that place!”
Then their eyes did meet, full of profound confidence and understanding. His arm went round her shoulders, and she drew close to him.
“I know!” said he. “Fellers like that are no good at all; and those girls!” He looked at his haughty and incorruptible Madeline. “Those girls,” said he, from the depths of his vast worldly knowledge, “are nothing but a bunch of jazz babies![Pg 102]”