"And now?" asks Pinckney.
Larry shrugs his shoulders. "The usual thing," says he; "only it happens a little earlier in the month. I'm flat broke, of course."
"Then why in the name of all folly will you not borrow a couple of hundred from me?" demands Pinckney.
"Would I pay it back?" says Larry. "No, I would not. So it would be begging, or stealing? You see how awkward that makes it, old chap?"
"But, deuce take it! what are you to do for the next three weeks, you know?" insists Pinckney.
"Disappear," says Larry, wavin' his cigarette jaunty, "and then—
"The haunts that knew him once
No more shall know.
The halls where once he trod
With stately tread—er—
Tum-ti-iddity—
As the dead—
or words, my dear Pinckney, much to that effect. My next remittance should be here by the third."
"When you'll reappear and do it all over again," says Pinckney.
"In which you're quite wrong," says Larry. "Not that I am bitten by remorse; but I weary of your game. It's a bit stupid, you know,—your mad rushing about here and there, plays, dinners, dances, week-ends. You're mostly a good sort; but you've no poise, no repose. Kittens chasing your tails! It leaves no chance to dream dreams."