Martha gave a grimace of exasperation.
“You’re the most insincere man I know,” she said. “Some day I’ll fall in love with a man who can be sincerely brilliant and beautiful and who doesn’t put his words together carefully, as though they were unimportant toys.”
“Such a fate may be exactly what you deserve,” said Carl, still grinning.
“Here we’ve been tramping around all day, seeing stupid people, and you waste Mart’s time with your old arguments about beauty and words,” said Helen with a jocose disgust. “I’m getting famished. Let’s go home.”
“I forgot to tell you, Carl—I’m having a party at the apartment this evening,” said Martha. “That strange, interesting Russian you met yesterday is coming—Alfred Kone. And Jarvin who runs the literary page on the Dispatch. You’ll come with us now, won’t you?”
“Yes, I’m interested in Kone. He carries a certain revolving electricity around with him. His words and gestures are abruptly flashing like showers of sparks. I’m almost tempted to find out where the sparks come from.”
“He’s a natural pagan,” said Martha with an admiring sigh. “Don’t you love that European air about him! It’s something that you wouldn’t like if you could put your finger on it—something elusive and graceful, and sophisticated.”
“Is it possible that you mean that Kone is intricately redundant?” said Carl, carelessly.
“Carl, you always talk in such a careful, unearthly way,” said Helen, with a combat of irritation and wonder in her voice.
“With most people talk is a weak, thin wine,” said Carl. “They drink endless cups of it and at last they become mildly intoxicated. I prefer to achieve drunkenness with less effort.”