The grin faded from the other's face. His brows wrinkled, and he said: “I don't get you, friend. What can a man do?”
“At least he can bow his heart; he can pay his tribute to womanhood.”
“You're too much for me,” responded Rosythe. “The imbeciles choose to go through with it; it's their own choice.”
Said Carpenter: “You have never thought of it as the choice of God?”
“Holy smoke!” exclaimed the critic. “I sure never did!”
At that moment one of the doors was opened. Rosythe turned his eyes. “Ah, Madame Planchet!” he cried. “Come tell us about it!”
IX
A stoutish woman out of a Paris fashion-plate came trotting across the room, smiling in welcome: “Meester Rosythe!” She had black earrings flapping from each ear, and her face was white, with a streak of scarlet for lips. She took the critic by his two hands, and the critic, laughing, said: “Respondez, Madame! Does God bring the ladies to this place?”
“Ah, surely, Meester Rosythe! The god of beautee, he breengs them to us! And the leetle god with the golden arrow, the rosy cheeks and the leetle dimple—the dimple that we make heem for two hundred dollars a piece—eh, Meester Rosythe? He breengs the ladies to us!”
The critic turned. “Madame Planchet, permit me to introduce Mr. Carpenter. He is a man of wonder, he heals pain, and does it by means of love.”