“Obviously. Well, since you’re a scientist— Are you a good scientist?”
“Pretty good.”
“I’ve met your Mrs. McGurk. And Dr. Rippleton Holabird. Met ’em in Hessian Hook. You know it, don’t you?”
“No, I— Oh, I’ve heard of it.”
“You know. It’s that renovated old part of Brooklyn where writers and economists and all those people, some of them almost as good as the very best, consort with people who are almost as smart as the very smartest. You know. Where they dress for dinner but all of them have heard about James Joyce. Dr. Holabird is frightfully charming, don’t you think?”
“Why—”
“Tell me. I really mean it. Cecil has been explaining what you plan to do experimentally. Could I help you—nursing or cooking or something—or would I merely be in the way?”
“I don’t know yet. If I can use you, I’ll be unscrupulous enough!”
“Oh, don’t be earnest like Cecil here, and Dr. Stokes! They have no sense of play. Do you like that man Stokes? Cecil adores him, and I suppose he’s simply infested with virtues, but I find him so dry and thin and unappetizing. Don’t you think he might be a little gayer?”
Martin gave up all chance of knowing her as he hurled: