Part 71 (1/2)

”Practically not at all. He's making _piles_ of money. He's sort of changed since the war. He's going to marry a girl in Philadelphia who has millions, Ceci Larrabee--anyhow, that's what Town Tattle said.”

”He's thirty-three,” said Anthony, thinking aloud. But it's odd to imagine his getting married. I used to think he was so brilliant.”

”He was,” murmured Gloria, ”in a way.”

”But brilliant people don't settle down in business--or do they? Or what do they do? Or what becomes of everybody you used to know and have so much in common with?”

”You drift apart,” suggested Muriel with the appropriate dreamy look.

”They change,” said Gloria. ”All the qualities that they don't use in their daily lives get cobwebbed up.”

”The last thing he said to me,” recollected Anthony, ”was that he was going to work so as to forget that there was nothing worth working for.”

Muriel caught at this quickly.

”That's what _you_ ought to do,” she exclaimed triumphantly. ”Of course I shouldn't think anybody would want to work for nothing. But it'd give you something to do. What do you do with yourselves, anyway? n.o.body ever sees you at Montmartre or--or anywhere. Are you economizing?”

Gloria laughed scornfully, glancing at Anthony from the corners of her eyes.

”Well,” he demanded, ”what are you laughing at?” ”You know what I'm laughing at,” she answered coldly.

”At that case of whiskey?”

”Yes”--she turned to Muriel--”he paid seventy-five dollars for a case of whiskey yesterday.”

”What if I did? It's cheaper that way than if you get it by the bottle.

You needn't pretend that you won't drink any of it.”

”At least I don't drink in the daytime.”

”That's a fine distinction!” he cried, springing to his feet in a weak rage. ”What's more, I'll be d.a.m.ned if you can hurl that at me every few minutes!”

”It's true.”

”It is _not!_ And I'm getting sick of this eternal business of criticising me before visitors!” He had worked himself up to such a state that his arms and shoulders were visibly trembling. ”You'd think everything was my fault. You'd think you hadn't encouraged me to spend money--and spent a lot more on yourself than I ever did by a long shot.”

Now Gloria rose to her feet.

”I _won't_ let you talk to me that way!”

”All right, then; by Heaven, you don't have to!”

In a sort of rush he left the room. The two women heard his steps in the hall and then the front door banged. Gloria sank back into her chair.

Her face was lovely in the lamplight, composed, inscrutable.

”Oh--!” cried Muriel in distress. ”Oh, what _is_ the matter?”

”Nothing particularly. He's just drunk.”

”Drunk? Why, he's perfectly sober. He talked----”