“No. He was all right.”
“Then what is worrying you?”
“Oh—nothing. Good ni—”
“You are going off angry. Aren’t you?”
“No, but—oh, there ain’t any use of our—of me being— Is there?”
“N-no—”
“Matisse—the guy you just spoke about—and these artists here tonight in bobtail dress-suits—I wouldn’t know when to wear one of them things, and when a swallow-tail—if I had one, even—or when a Prince Albert or—”
“Oh, not a Prince Albert, Mouse dear. Say, a frock-coat.”
“Sure. That’s what I mean. It’s like that Matisse guy. I don’t know about none of the things you’re interested in. While you’ve been away from Mrs. Arty’s—Lord, I’ve missed you so! But when I try to train with your bunch, or when you spring Matisse” (he seemed peculiarly to resent the unfortunate French artist) “on me I sort of get onto myself—and now it ain’t like it was in England; I’ve got a bunch of my own I can chase around with. Anyway, I got onto myself tonight. I s’pose it’s partly because I been thinking you didn’t care much for my friends.”
“But, Mouse dear, all this isn’t news to me. Surely you, who’ve gipsied with me, aren’t going to be so obvious, so banal, as to blame me because you’ve cared for me, are you, child?”