“Life is like a mountain railway,
From the cradle to the grave.
Keep yoh hand upon the throttle
An’ yoh eyes—upon—the—rail....”
It would sound splendidly in the dim forecastle of the first scene. It would float and die under the blue vault of the Walling. He had just seen the lights turned on a recession of faint silver rims in the dull cloud of that ceiling. He was still drugged by the sight. His theatre was like a desirable body promised to his arms. Gurdy played again the slow air in curious variations, flutters of notes. Mark opened his eyes to watch the slide of the long fingers on the keys. Olive was smiling.
“Delightful. Very moral, too. Sound advice. How well you play, Gurdy!”
“Always did,” said Mark, “He could play like a streak when he was ten. Come along up and have a fight with Mr. Carlson, daughter.”
Olive let Margot’s voice melt into the old man’s cackle above. Gurdy said, “We went to the Walling after rehearsal, Lady Ilden. Honestly, it’s a corker. The ceiling’s nearly finished. Theatres don’t last, worse luck. But there’s nothing like it in the city. Mark’s worked like a pup over it.—How was your tea?”
“Very decent. Varieties of women, there. Almost no men. A débutante told me she admired Walt Whitman more than most English poets and was rather positive that he was English. I can’t understand the American tabu on Whitman.”
“Immoral.”