Hamilton betrayed his eagerness in a look.
“No, where is she?”
McCall was still staring at the table.
“She’s staying with a party of Red Cross nurses. Her parents met her in New York, but went back alone. Of course you’ll call on her. I know she’d be glad to see you.”
They walked out of the room together, McCall between them, still absorbed in thought. His mood changed, however, at Reisenweber’s. Opposite them sat a fat man in full-dress, with a chorus girl upon each knee.
He was frankly hugging them and they were as frankly pulling greenbacks out of his pockets and tucking them into their stockings, conveniently rolled.
“Here’s civilization in America at its highest,” said Levin cynically. “The fat man is a manufacturer who has been yelling against the Bolsheviki for destroying the home. He’s a bitter opponent of free love.”
McCall laughed.
“Well, why shouldn’t he be opposed to free love? He has to pay for it, doesn’t he? He looks like a picture by Hogarth—a picture in the Rake’s Progress. Only Death ought to be lurking somewhere about.”
“Oh, he is,” said Levin, “although you can’t see him. Life doesn’t reveal its spectres until the right moment. But we’re all too introspective. A cabaret is frankly a place for enjoyment. We ought to dance.”