“I’d like to know who writes such infamous songs!” he said to Caracal.
“Bah, never mind! Calm yourself!” Caracal answered, with sudden uneasiness. “Never mind; it’s not worth while. No one understands!”
“What a set of fools!” Phil went on. “I’m going away; I choke here!”
“We’ll go with you,” added the Duke of Morgania.
A moment later Phil took his leave of the duke and Caracal, to return home. From the other side of the street he saw Caracal gesticulating and explaining modern art to the duke. Fragmentary sentences reached his ear: “Chansonniers rosses—off with all masks—the future of poetry—poetry voyez-vous—just like the rose, sprouts from the dunghill.”
CHAPTER IV
’TWIXT DOG AND POET
Phil went his way, leaving the duke and Caracal behind him.
He was angry with himself for having come. Especially he was frightened at the feeling which had just been urging him to punish the singer on the stage. There was something more in it than the natural indignation of an upright heart in presence of a low action. He felt it a hundred times more than he would have done for a personal insult. He stood forth revealed to himself as the champion of Miss Rowrer.
On the whole, the verses were stupid rather than malignant; but it had been stronger than he—an explosion, in a way, of a growing passion. He resolved to stop short on this dangerous descent and not allow himself to be lured on by an impossible love, the very thought of which seemed to him worthy of blame.
Phil was not content with his evening, so well begun and so ill ended.