Of all the men Marco loved her best and most truly. She knew it. She liked him. But he was dull. He cut no figure anywhere. He took no part in discussions. He never cited Dostoiewsky. He never tiraded against the lack of understanding of the people. He once angered everybody by saying that the people, the plain common ordinary people, were the creators of everything worth while. She hated him for saying that. He had a way of his, of burying his bushy head in his pipe and looking from underneath his eyebrows, that angered her very much.
He loved her, he adored her, and as time went by, he became more dull. Some people's tongues are loosened by love as by wine, and others are stricken dumb.
Marco lost speech whenever he faced Fay, lost it more and more as his love for the girl grew.
"What's the matter with your Roumanian savage?" friends asked the girl.
"I don't know. He is getting duller every day," the girl answered.
Then, one day, as Fay and a party of friends planned a merry evening, Marco flared up enthusiastically.
"Come with me, somewhere."
"Where?" they all asked.
"With me, to a place I know."
And thus it was that a dozen American young men and women descended the stairs of Moskowitz's cellar.