“The trouble with Art is that it doesn't pay a decent living wage unless you're willing to commercialize—”
“The trouble with Art is that it never did, except for a few chance lucky people—”
“The trouble with Art is women.”
“The trouble with women is Art.”
“The trouble with Art—with women, I mean—change signals! What do I mean?”
IV
Oliver is taking Ted out to Melgrove with him over Sunday for suburban fresh-air and swimming, so the two just manage to catch the 12.53 from the Grand Central, in spite of Slade Wilson's invitation to talk all night and breakfast at the Brevoort. They spend the rattling, tunnel-like passage to 125th Street catching their breath again, a breath that seems to strike a florid gentlemen in a dirty collar ahead of them with an expression of permanent, sorrowful hunger. Then Ted remarks reflectively,
“Nice gin.”
“Uh-huh. Not floor varnish anyway like most of this prohibition stuff. What think of the people?”