“God, your mother and your native laziness incline you that way,” said Barry, gravely. “You’re better than good; you’re apathetic. Inertia will see you through.”
“It takes energy to be a devil,” added Coltfoot. “Your perfect angel snoozes on a cloud. She’s too lazy to walk. That’s why she grew wings and why you take taxi-cabs, Rosalind.”
“I do. I use my legs sufficiently on the stage, thank you. Also, I admit I like to snooze.”
“Angel,” said Betsy from the mirror, “lend me your lipstick.” And, to Annan: “May I ascend to the rear room and make up properly?”
“No, go into my room.”
“But there’s no dressing table there——” starting to go.
“You can’t go up there,” he repeated. “I mean it.”
The girl turned: “Oh, is there a lady there?” she asked with that flippant freedom fashionable in certain sets, but mostly due to ignorance.
“There is,” said Annan, coolly.
Rosalind did not believe it, but she said carelessly: “That’s rather disgusting if it’s true.”