Langdon stared at him, jaw agape. Then:
"Quit that ghost-dancing and talk sense," he ventured.
"Do you think that men are going to stand for it?" yelled Sayre, waving his hands, "ordinary, decent, God-fearing, everyday young men like you and me? If this cataclysmic cult gains ground among American women—if these exasperating suffragettes really intend to carry out any such programme, everybody on earth will resemble everybody else—like those wax figures marked 'neat,' 'imported,' and 'nobby'! And I told Amourette that, too; but she wouldn't listen—she wouldn't lis—My God! Why am I bald?"
He swung his arms like a pair of flails and advanced distractedly upon Langdon, who immediately retreated.
"Come back here," he said. "I want to picture to you the horrors that are going on in your native land! You ought to know. You've got to know!"
"Certainly, old man," quavered Langdon, keeping a tree between them. "But don't come any closer or I'll scream."
"Do you think I'm nutty?"
"Oh, not at all—not at all," said Langdon soothingly. "Probably the wafers disagreed with you."
"Curtis, wouldn't it rock any man's equilibrium to fall head over heels in love with a girl inside of ten minutes? I merely ask you, man to man."
"It sure would, dear friend——"