“Lance is a paleontologist,” murmured the girl next to Vincelle. “He’s wonderful, isn’t he? But so gloomy!”
Vincelle had no idea what a paleontologist was, but he didn’t like them. He felt horribly out of it. He couldn’t be learned, and he wouldn’t be funny, like Pendleton. He was quite aware that he wasn’t making any sort of impression here. Claudine must have become conscious of his dissatisfaction—perhaps he showed it—for she suddenly addressed him.
“What do you think, Mr. Vincelle? Do you think we’re a miserable, doomed remnant?”
He flushed.
“I’ve never given it much thought,” he said. “I’ve been busy keeping up with business.”
His poor little remark sounded so sulky and infantile that even he was confused.
“And politics,” he added, in an attempt to sound broader-minded.
Lance drew out his watch.
“I’m going to lock up now,” he said. “Five minutes before the lights go out!”
There was a chorus of good-nights.