The small band was playing loudly and eagerly. One sentimental modern song after another was catapulted into the room. Fortunately, after several minutes the band stopped playing and the musicians departed.
“I’m glad they’re gone,” said Carla. “They make too much music.”
“They aren’t very delicate.” Lewis turned suddenly to Holton. “And you, what do you do?”
Holton flushed. “Well, I work in a brokerage house.”
Lewis’s eyebrows went up and he elaborately showed surprise and disbelief. “But how remarkable! You’re not an artist! Surely you must do something wonderful. You have the hands of an artist. You’re just working there because you have to. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“No, that’s not it.” Carla admired his courage. “I don’t mind working there and it’s probably going to be my career.” His jaw got very firm. She liked him this way.
“How marvelous!” exclaimed Lewis. “A contented Babbitt.” He stopped. “What a dreadful thing to say: that’s such a Nineteen-Twenty phrase. Really, I sometimes wonder if art is the answer to our problems.”
“I think it might be to the artist,” said Carla softly.
Lewis bowed. “Touché, my dear. Let’s say the dedication to art, the freedom from conventions. Perhaps this young man’s view is the saner: to accept the pattern.” He was mocking now but he did not show it in his face.
“Some things you have to accept,” said Holton, aware of Lewis’s mockery. “Sometimes there is nothing else.”