“Bacchus, god of all true inspiration!” cried Severance. “Waiter, slave of B-Bacchus, where is my Scotch?”
“Severance, you’re going too far along your chosen line,” declared Banneker bluntly.
“Yes; we must tone down a little,” agreed Marrineal.
The sensationalist lifted calmly luminous eyes to his chief. “Why?” he queried softly. “Are you meditating a change? Does the journalistic l-lady of easy virtue begin to yearn f-for the paths of respectability?”
“Steady, Severance,” warned Edmonds.
At the touch of the curb the other flamed into still, white wrath. “If you’re going to be a whore,” he said deliberately, “play the whore’s game. I’m one and I know it. Banneker’s one, but hasn’t the courage to face it. You’re one, Edmonds—no, you’re not; not even that. You’re the hallboy that f-fetches the drinks—”
Marrineal had risen. Severance turned upon him.
“I salute you, Madam of our high-class establishment. When you take your p-price, you at least look the business in the face. No illusions for M-Madam Marrineal.... By the w-way, I resign from the house.”
“Are you coming, Mr. Edmonds?” said Marrineal. “You’ll sign the check for me, will you, Mr. Banneker?”
Left alone with the disciple of Bacchus and Beelzebub, the editor said: