“Well, if you ask me, I should say, no. I’d back the soap as a civilizer against the Louvre any day.”
Barney stopped in his walk, raised his arms above his head, and let them drop heavily to his sides.
“I haven’t a friend in the world!” he cried, in tragic tones. “Not one—not one!”
“Barney, this conversation is bewildering. What are you driving at, anyhow? Art, soap, literature, advertising, friendship, marriage—what’s wrong? Who is the woman?”
“Don’t talk to me about women! I hate them!”
“I thought you were most successful in that line. I believe I have your own authority for the statement.”
“Success! One is successful up to a point; then there is a disappointment that shows what a sham success has been. I’ll never speak to a woman again.”
“I’ve been there myself—several times. Still we always return—if not to our first love, to our fourth, or fifth. As for friends, I don’t know any man who has more.”
“Not true friends, Haldiman. I haven’t one, I tell you. I did think you were a friend, and you do nothing but sneer at me. You think I don’t see it; I do, all the same. I’m the most sensitive of men, although nobody appears to appreciate it.”
“I don’t sneer at you, Barney. What put that in your head? I think you sometimes fail to appreciate other people’s sensitiveness. You are a trifle prone to flaunt Bank of England notes in the faces of those not so well provided as you are with them. Then the sensitive soul rises in rebellion.”