“Give me the brush—Violet socks with white polka dots. A toi, mon coco! En charrette! Quinny, get to work. A nous, les anciens! What a float, eh? Where do we rendezvous? Café Procopé? Every one there—Café Procopé, eight sharp! Du Bois and De Monvel, go first. Parfaitement! Gogo, tu es épatant.” He began to rock with laughter. “Look at Gogo! Isn’t he a wonder! Garçon, des bocks! All together, now—
“C’est les quatz’ arts,
C’est les quatz’ arts,
C’est les quatz’ arts qui passent,
C’est les quatz’ arts passés.”
In his excitement he rose to a sitting position and began to beat time, listening to the volume of an indistinguishable orchestra in crowded halls. Then the air seemed to be shaken with frantic applause, for he began to bow to gay, whirling throngs, and all at once called out triumphantly, “L’atelier Julian—premier prix!” After which, reason seemed to flow back into his eyes, and he turned to her and said quite rationally:
“Water—more water.”
“Lie down—rest quietly, Mr. Dangerfield,” she said, serving him. “It will pass in a moment.”
His eyes dwelt on her fixedly, seeming to grow larger and deeper as the consciousness faded. He smiled contentedly.
“Always you,” he said quietly. In a moment he added: “I know everything that is passing; I hear everything.” But already he was back in the delirium, in a jumble of painful, rapid reflections of the past, crying:
“Every one in the house dines with me to-night! Valentin, give me the bank. I take the bank for a thousand louis. Who plays? Baccarat!” And again. “Louise, Louise Fortier! Thank you—yes, it’s my hat. Fortier? I know that name—from the south. That’s my route—if you will allow me.... Once more; a bank of a thousand louis! Gentlemen, your turn’s come. No, no; win or lose to the end! Well, a clean sweep. I take one card—as usual, baccarat! What color—Italy—see Italy and die.... Bon jour, les copins! I am back again—cleaned out!” He stopped suddenly and lifted his hand to his head, saying with a ceremonious bow to the glittering room of frantic gamblers which rose in his vision: “Gentlemen, I thank you. You have restored me to my art! Cocher, Rue Bonaparte!” Immediately a frown succeeded, and he said rapidly, in a hard voice: “No, no, and no! I permit you to love another—that is your right. I do not admit of vulgar deception. You will do as I say. You will do it, or I—”
“Mr. Dangerfield,” cried Inga, laying her hand over his, which was whipping back and forth in uncontrolled excitement, “hush!”
There was a slight noise in the back of the room and the door clicked. Belle Shaler, fearing to overhear too much, had slipped away.