“Submarines,” Gurdy said, “But why does Mrs. Ilden need cheering up, sir? She used to be an awfully cheerful sort of person.”
“Oh,” said Gail, “her boy—Bobby.”
“I hadn’t heard he—”
“Fell a year ago. Do try to run over.... How pretty Margot is!”
Gurdy ate another sandwich, correcting champagne. There would be long illusions after this war. Grudges, idealized memories of trivial folk. But he was sorry for Olive Ilden. He said, “I’ll try to get over. I’ll—”
Choute Aurec ran through the doorway, yelped, “Ariane va danser, messieurs, dames!” and darted out again.
“What did that incontinent little brute say?” Gail asked.
“I think Miss Joyce is going to dance,” said Gurdy.
“It’s disgusting,” the Englishman snorted, “Some cad always flatters her into dancing and the poor woman falls on her face. Don’t go.”
The doorway filled with watchers. Women giggled. Some one played slowly the first bars of the Volga Barge song. There was an applausive murmur—then a thud. “She’s fallen,” said Gail and suddenly Gurdy remembered that this was an American, that he had seen her dance to the jammed ecstasy of the Metropolitan. The women in the doorway squealed their amusement. The crowd parted and he saw the green gauze wrapping her limp body as two Frenchmen carried her back to her throne. The crowd applauded, now.