“Swine,” said Gail.
Gurdy summoned up his philosophy and shrugged. The young prize-fighter came through the press and snapped to a civilian, “Je me sauve, Etienne!”
“Mais—”
“C’est nauséabonde! Elle était artiste, vois tu? Allons; je file!”
“The boy’s right,” said the playwright, “Sickening. Come along.” They passed through the beginning of a dance in the great chamber and down the stairs into an alley where motors were lined. In a taxicab Gail concluded, “End of an artist.”
Gurdy thought this sententious but a queer oppression filled him. It was hideous that any one should finish as a butt with a prize-fighter for apologist. Of course, life was nothing but a meaningless spectacle. Money, something to drink, a dancing floor drew this crowd together. The fat dancer was rather funny, if one looked it all over. Mark could contrive the whole effect on a stage if he wanted.
“Mark writes that he’s almost decided to build his theatre in West Forty Seventh.”
“I wish he’d hurry,” said Gurdy, “He’s been planning the Walling for years. Funny. He told Mr. Frohman all about it just before the Lusitania.”
“Poor Frohman,” the Englishman murmured, “Awfully decent to me.”
There should be a certain decency, a cool restraint in life, the philosopher mused. He thought of this next morning when Choute Aurec telephoned hopefully for a loan of a thousand francs. By noon he had discovered that he was flatly homesick for Mark and thought of Margot in London as the nearest familiar creature. The bureau permitted his departure. He crossed a still Channel and made his way to London in the company of an earnest Red Cross girl from Omaha who wanted Fontainebleau turned into a reform school for rescued Parisian street walkers. She had a General for uncle and Gurdy feared that she would be able to forward her plan to the French government.