“His sex must be blamed for that. The right men are all wrong and the wrong men are all right. That’s my experience. ‘Young saint, old devil; young devil, old saint.’ You couldn’t provide me with a better recommendation for a good husband than a bad reputation as a bachelor. And think of the calm delights of regeneration!”
“You’ll have no difficulty in finding him, Nina,” said Jane.
“I’m afraid there’s no hope for me,” laughed Kane. “I, for one, am too good for any use.”
“Too good to be true,” sniffed Nina.
“Or too true to be interesting,” he added, below his breath.
Nellie Pennington, having led her companions into deep water, now turned and guided them into the shoals of the commonplace. Jane Loring’s eyes and Phil Gallatin’s had met across the table. The act was unavoidable for they sat directly opposite each other and, though each looked away at once, the current established, brief as it was, was burdened with meaning. Gallatin read a hundred things, but love was not one of them. Jane read a hundred things any one of which might have been love, but, as far as she knew, was not. Gallatin caught the end of a gaze she had given him while he was talking to Nina, and he fancied it to be a kind of indignant curiosity, not in the slightest degree related to the scorn of her surprise at being detected in the midst of her inspection. Gallatin found her face thinner, which made her eyes seem larger and the shadows under them deeper. He had seen fresh young beauty such as hers break and fade during one season in New York, but it shocked him a little to find these marks so evident in so short a time. It was as though a year, two years even, had been crowded into the few weeks since he had seen her last, as though she had lived at high tension, letting nothing escape her that could add to the sum of experience. Her eyes sparkled, and on her cheeks was a patch of red clearly defined, like rouge, but not rouge, for it came and went with her humor. She had grown older, more intense, more fragile, her features more clearly carved, more refined and—except for the hard little shadows at the corners of her lips—more spiritual.
He glanced at the heavy, bovine face of Coley Van Duyn beside her and wondered. Coley had been drinking freely and his face was flushed, his laugh open-mouthed and louder than Nellie Pennington’s humor seemed to warrant. How could she? God! How could she do it?
A blind rage came upon Gallatin, a sudden wave of intolerance and rebellion, and he clenched his fists beneath the table. This man drank as much as he liked and when he pleased. He was the club glutton. He ate immoderately and drank immoderately, because he liked to do it, and because that was his notion of comfort. Not, as had been the case with Gallatin, because he had not been able to live without it. Van Duyn could stop drinking when he liked, when he had had enough, when he didn’t want any more. He drank for the mere pleasure of drinking. Gallatin bit his lip and stared at his untouched wine glasses. Pleasure? With Gallatin it had been no pleasure. It had been a medicine, a desperate remedy for a desperate pain, a poisonous medicine which cured and killed at the same time.
“Phil!” Nina’s voice sounded suddenly at his ear. “Are you ill?”