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My dear fellow, as a matter of fact, marriage is all very well for bankers and brokers, unconvicted millionaires, week domestic animals in search of a capable housekeeper, you know, and all that sort of thing, but for men of the world like ourselves, it's a mistake. Don't do it again, my boy don't do it." Lightbody laughed a barking laugh that quite satisfied De Gollyer.
Soon as you get four or more of the species together, conversation always comes around to marriage. Ever notice that, eh?" "My dear fellow," said De Gollyer, from the intolerant point of view of a bachelor, "that is because marriage is your one common affliction. Artists, musicians, all the lower order of the intellect, marry. They must. They can't help it. It's the one thing you can't resist.
"By George, that's immense," continued De Gollyer exploding with delight, and, on a higher octave, he repeated: "Immense! Morocco and a smashing dash into Africa for big game. The old trip just as we planned it seven years ago. "I don't care anywhere." De Gollyer went nimbly to the bookcase and bore back an atlas. "My boy the best thing in the world.
Leaning against the desk, he gazed down at the rug, mentally and physically inert. De Gollyer, returning to his nature, said presently: "I say, dear old fellow, it's awfully delicate, but I should like to be frank, from the shoulder out and out, do you mind?" "What? No." Seeing that Lightbody had only half listened, De Gollyer spoke with some hesitation: "Of course it's devilish impudent.
As for the rest, it is what it is, because it is one example where literature can do nothing better than record." "Do I know the woman?" asked De Gollyer, who flattered himself on passing through every class of society. "Possibly, but no more than any one else." "An actress?" "What she has been in the past I don't know a promoter would better describe her.
"You believe then," said De Gollyer after a certain moment had been consumed in hair splitting, "that the origin of all dramatic themes is simply the expression of some human emotion. In other words, there can exist no more parent themes than there are human emotions." "I thank you, sir, very well put," said Quinny with a generous wave of his hand. "Why is the Three Musketeers a basic theme?
De Gollyer poured out his drink and looked at Lightbody en connoisseur. "You've gone off old six years. You were the smartest of the old crowd, too. You certainly have gone off." Lightbody listened, with his eyes in his glass. "Jack, you're middle-aged you've gone off badly. It's hit you hard." There was a moment's silence and then Lightbody spoke quietly: "Jim!" "What is it, old boy?"
"She did it on purpose," said De Gollyer. "There was nothing childlike about her, either. On the contrary, I consider her a clever, a devilishly clever woman." "Of course she did. They're all clever, damn them!" said Steingall, explosively. "Now, what do you say, Quinny? I say that an artist who marries might just as well tie a rope around his neck and present it to his wife and have it over."
His head flushed hot, his breath came in short, panting rage. He struck the letter again and again, and then suddenly, frantically, began to rush back and forth, repeating: "Dishonored dishonored!" All at once a moment of clarity came to him with a chill of ice. He stopped, went to the telephone and called up the Racquet Club, saying: "Mr. De Gollyer to the 'phone."
"Thank you, I said that about the year 1907," said Quinny, while Steingall gasped and nudged Towsey. "That is the tragedy of life, not the tragedy of art, two very different things. An artist has need of ten, fifteen, twenty women, according to the multiplicity of his ideas. He should be always violently in love or violently reacting." "And the wife?" said De Gollyer. "Has she any influence?"
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