“Let's go have another drink,” said the private in Aviation.
Fuselli looked at his watch; they had hours before train time.
A girl in a loose dirty blouse wiped off the table.
“Vin blank,” said the other man.
“Mame shows,” said Fuselli.
His head was full of gold and green mouldings and silk and crimson velvet and intricate designs in which naked pink-fleshed cupids writhed indecently. Some day, he was saying to himself, he'd make a hell of a lot of money and live in a house like that with Mabe; no, with Yvonne, or with some other girl.
“Must have been immoral, them guys,” said the private in Aviation, leering at the girl in the dirty blouse.
Fuselli remembered a revel he'd seen in a moving picture of “Quo Vadis,” people in bath robes dancing around with large cups in their hands and tables full of dishes being upset.
“Cognac, beaucoup,” said the private in Aviation.
“Mame shows,” said Fuselli.