“He doesn’t appreciate the nudges,” laughed Gilbert.
“He’s forgotten how jolly they are,” retorted Image, with a twinkle. “That’s just what I complain of.”
Jack Iverson, who had been vainly trying to follow “those brainy fellows,” broke in with a commonplace. “Well, I hate the people you see in buses and tubes. They think they are as good as you, and they always seem in such a beastly hurry to get somewhere. And, all the time, I suppose most of ’em don’t do anything in particular.”
“No, they only earn their livings,” said Neeburg drily.
“Well, I’m glad I don’t have to,” said Iverson, lighting his cigar. “I’d rather have money than brains. I say, I’ve got to rush off soon, Gilbert. Claudia insisted that I must go to Lady Laud’s dance at the ‘Ritz.’ Rotten fag, bunny-hugging and Gaby-gliding.”
“Is your sister going too?” asked Gilbert quickly.
“Claudia? Yes. I suppose you got an invitation?”
“Yes, but I had forgotten all about it.”
“Dancing is a beastly bore. I’m fed up with it,” continued Iverson complacently, his striking good looks in obvious contrast to his commonplace mind. “I’d rather play bridge any day, wouldn’t you?”