“And what does Chicago think of—of us?” he asked.
“Oh, that’s all right. Chicago is beginning to realize that it needs us. Chicago wants to be a metropolis. And all the stockyards in the world won’t make a metropolis. Enough of us, given a free-hand—can. And Chicago knows it. Just now we are at a premium here. We can be as crazy as we like!”
“I wonder?”
“You ought to have known the scenic genius who preceded Paul. Dick Bernitz, his name was. He was a wild one. Gloom—despair—and, as it turned out, drugs. He came from Nevada. He affected evening clothes—wanted to wear them all day long, in fact! Baudelaire was his god. We were too tame for him. He left us, and starved and froze somewhere in the slums—still in his evening clothes; and got pneumonia and died. And Dick was—just a nice boy who wanted to do beautiful pictures and poems. Nevada did that to him.”
“But—why blame Nevada?”
“His father was in real-estate. He wanted Dick to sell real-estate.”
“Well, and after all, why not? One must do something ordinary—to make a living.”
“Why didn’t you do something ordinary? Why did you come to Chicago?”
Felix was silent.
“I’ve kind of got you bothered, haven’t I?” said the girl maliciously.