“But—” With recovery Gurdy had shed some sense of illusions. He stood thinking of his regiment rather sourly, rather sadly.
The broker-major grunted, “Rot, Gurdy. You’re all Mark’s got—Son, and all that. Dare say Margot’ll marry some Englishman. Anyhow, it’s all over. Bulgaria’s on the skids. Mark thinks too much of you.”
Gurdy was subtly pleased. He stood thinking of Mark fondly, with annotations in contempt. Mark was nothing but a big blunderer among the arts, a man who couldn’t see the strength of Russian drama or disillusioned comedy, who didn’t admire Granville Barker’s plays. But if Margot stayed in England Gurdy could steer his uncle toward proper productions. Mark meant well, very well. He had done some fine things, had a feeling for vesture, anyhow.
“I see the Celebrities people have bought the Terriss Pictograph,” said Major Villay, “Exchange of stock. Funny. Mark hates the movies so and he makes twenty thousand a year out of them. And the movie people gave him fifteen thousand for that rotten Gail play. Here, take this stuff and translate it. I can probably get you a pass over to London if you want to see Margot.”
Gurdy didn’t want to see her. His last view of Margot had been in the stress of her removal from Miss Thorne’s school. Mark had gone five times to England on visits of a month, reported her beautiful, witty, petted by Mrs. Ilden, by Mrs. Ilden’s friends. But he wrote her a note dutifully and got an answer in three lines. “Glad you are out of the silly mess. Try to run over. Frightfully rushed catching a train for Devon. More later.” He was not offended. He thought that Margot disliked him as he disliked her. He threw the note into the waste basket and went on translating French political comments into English.
The Armistice broke on the third week of this employment. The bureau became a negation of labour. Gurdy roamed contentedly about the feverish, foolish city with various friends—young officers, sergeant majors on agreeable posts. He was tall, still pallid from sunless convalescence. His uniform happened to fit a long, loosely moving body and he liked dancing. He equably observed male diversion with his dark blue eyes and was often diverted. This might be the collapse of known society, the beginning of a hygienic and hardworked future. This churning of illusions might bring something fresh. Men might turn to new programs of stupidity, exhausting the old. He danced and was courted. He wrote to Mark, choosing words: “There will be plays about this, I suppose. I do not think any one will believe it fifty years from now. It is an upheaval of cheap pleasure. I keep thinking how Carlson calls people hogs.” He hesitated, continued: “I do not know that there is an excuse for all of it. Some of the Americans make bigger hogs of themselves than is necessary.” Then he destroyed the letter. After all, Mark was your typical patriot. He took America seriously, the American soldier seriously, the American Red Cross had profited by his sentiment. There was no point in hurting Mark. Gurdy wrote a gay tale of driving through Paris in a vegetable cart with a drunken Australian colonel and went to dine at Luca’s.
From Luca’s his party retired to the Opera Comique, stopped to drink champagne in the bar and stayed there until it wasn’t worth while to hear the last act. “And,” said a youth from San Francisco, “we can go to Ariana Joyce’s. She’s giving a party.”
“But she’s dead,” Gurdy objected.
“Damn healthy corpse! Come ahead and see if she’s dead!”
They floated in a taxicab along Paris. The machine slipped from the lavender rush of some broad street up a slope and Gurdy stumbled into a brilliance of laughing people where his guide pushed him toward a green dais and hissed, “She won’t know you from Adam. Tell her you’re from Chicago.”