“Old Jule Cæsar’s wife was a schmeer in comparison,” he agreed.
“I’ll tell you, young man,” she remarked, “I’ve found the Broadway atmosphere healthier than it is in some New York younger sets.”
“Is that one answer to why do young men haunt stage doors?” inquired Coltfoot.
“You miserable cynic,” retorted Betsy, “the sort of young man who does that belongs in the sets I mentioned.”
“Anyway,” added Rosalind, with lazy humour, “you and Barry are spending a perfectly good evening as close to the stage as you can get. Why?”
“Why,” added Betsy, “do men prefer women of the stage?”
“Good God,” said Coltfoot, “take any Sunday supplement and compare the faces of Newport and Broadway. That’s one reason out of hundreds.”
“Few men chase a face that makes them ache,” added Barry, “even if the atmosphere in some sets smells of the stage door.... Tell me, beautiful Betsy, why you don’t canter about very much in your own gold-plated and exclusive social corral?”
“Because,” she replied tranquilly, “I have a better time with the people I meet professionally ... mavericks from the gold-plated corral like you, for instance. You and Mike and Rosalind are more amusing than Sally Snitface or Percy Pinhead. And you’re far more moral.”
“I wonder if I am moral,” mused Rosalind, shaking the cracked ice in her glass.