But Mitzi, though she could not understand their talk, perceived that there was something inimical in the atmosphere. Presently she yawned behind the sinister little manicured paw, and stood up.
“Well, goo’-ni’, boys. Come round to-morrow.”
Through sullen lashes Stanny watched the little thing go swaying down the room and through the curtain at the rear, an unfathomable pain in his eyes. Wilfred raged internally. A man like Stanny to be brought down by that! What am I raging at? he asked himself. Certainly not at Stanny; nor at the unconscious, infantile Mitzi. And he had no God to rage at.—At the same time Wilfred envied Stanny; his pain was so much simpler than his own.
Wilfred and Stanny went out on the sidewalk. At the Third avenue corner Stanny stopped.
“You had better leave me here,” he said bitterly, but without anger; “you can do me no good to-night.”
“How about your doing me a little good?” suggested Wilfred.
“Don’t make me laugh!” said Stanny. “You’re as transparent as window glass! . . . If you could only get rid of your evangelical streak!”
“I don’t want to save you,” said Wilfred. “I just want to be with somebody. Even you! . . . My God! you’re a selfish beggar!”
Stanny snorted, and started walking on with that extraordinarily doughty carriage of his, more pronounced when he was drunk.
Wilfred fell in beside him. “Oh hell,” he said, “you can say what you like. I’m not going to leave you. . . . You can come to my place if you want. Or I’ll go to yours if you’d rather.”