“I think,” said Levin aside to Hamilton, as they were pulling on their coats, “that something’s worrying McCall. Has he a sweetheart in Paris?”
“Nonsense,” said Hamilton. “Wouldn’t he have told me?”
“Oh, of course, they always do, don’t they? Whenever a man falls in love he runs around announcing the news. Most of the time the man hasn’t any idea that he is in love.”
McCall, after flicking his shoes with a towel, joined them and they started off together.
They began with the Little Club and champagne and ended with Reisenwebers and gin fizzes.
With the first drink, McCall seemed to recover his spirits.
“On his third glass he usually begins to quote Walt Whitman,” said Hamilton.
“Well, I’ve seen many worse effects of drink,” Dr. Levin’s eyes twinkled.
“But not much worse, eh?” said McCall. “Well, anyway, I wish Whitman could take a look at this,” McCall made a slight gesture with his hand. “I wonder what he’d say about Manhattan and democracy.”
“I suppose we need a Whitman now,” said Dr. Levin. “We’ve just gone through another Civil War—the Civil War of the white race. It needs a poet, a Whitman to sing the new ideal of democracy.”