Jacqueline waited a moment longer; then rose from her desk in signal that the interview was at an end.
Waudle slouched out first, his oblong, evil head hanging in a picturesque attitude of noble sorrow. The Cubist shambled after him, wrapped in abstraction, his round, pale, bird-like eyes partly sheathed under bluish eyelids that seemed ancient and wrinkled.
He was already quite oblivious to his own moral degradation; his mind was completely obsessed by the dramatic spectacle which the despair of his friend had afforded him, and by the idea for a poem with which the episode had inspired him.
He was still absently fishing for a pencil and bit of paper when his companion jogged his elbow:
"If we fight this business, and if that damn girl sets Clydesdale after us, we'll have to get out. But I don't think it will come to that."
"Can you stop her, Adalbert—and retain the money?"
"By God! I'm beginning to think I can. I believe I'll drop in to see Mrs. Clydesdale about it now. She is a very faithful friend of mine," he added gently. "And sometimes a woman will rush in to help a fellow where angels fear to tread."
The poet looked at him, then looked away, frightened.
"Be careful," he said, nervously.
"Don't worry. I know women. And I have an idea."