Fanshaw was thinking for some reason of Dürer's portrait of himself at the age of twenty-eight. There was a man who had never needed to bust loose. They must have been less tied to the wheel in those days.
"But you always have to pay the piper, Nan," Wenny was saying. "It's no use trying to escape that. It's fearfully dangerous to live. I should say music was less safe than love."
"Not if you use your reason, Wenny," said Fanshaw.
"Who ever had any reason to use? It's an illusion, the result of thinking things over after they've happened."
Nan left the table. Fanshaw found himself glaring indignantly at Wenny.
"Gee, isn't Nan beautiful to look at tonight?"
"O, she is!" said Fanshaw smiling with forced frankness. He felt a tumult like frightened pigeons in a box inside him. Heavens, suppose he was in love with Nan!
Nan came down the redcarpeted stairs beside the gondola, pulling on her gloves. She stood a moment talking to the girls in the orchestra.
Fanshaw leaned across the table.
"Wenny, don't you think you had better not drink any more?"