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Ryne fer y'ars, whar de Loveman store ez now. Dere wuz a theatre whar Montgomery Ward store ez, a lot ob de theatre peeple roomed en bo'ded wid Mrs. Ryne, en dey would gib me passes ter de sho' en I'd slip up in de gall'ry en watch de sho'. I couldn't read a wud but I 'joy'd goin'. Mah daddy wuz a driver fer Mr. Ryan." "I nussed fer a Mrs. Mitchell en she had a boy in schul.
Faith's devotion to the Doctrine of Elimination allowed nothing else in the hall, but in the living room there were three whole pieces of furniture besides, of course, the caterer's gilt chairs brought in to hold the restless sex as they tried to rest from their restlessness. Faith Loveman looked curiously at Warble. "You can't be very restless," she observed, "you'd be thinner."
They discussed current plays and seemed to get out of them far more than the author ever put in. They talked of a picture exhibit at the Gauguin Galleries, but this was as Choctaw to Warble; not a word could she understand. "Are you of the cognoscenti?" asked Faith Loveman of Warble. "I know all about art but I don't know what I like," she returned, blushing prettily. "Oh, we'll teach you that.
Psychoanalysis was their washpot, and over the fourth dimension did they cast their shoes. Their afternoon digest was held at Faith Loveman's and Warble went. The Loveman home was an abstract bungalow, which showed rather plainly the iron hand in the velvet glove influence of the Japanese.
Iva Payne, the hateful thing, sent a Cubist picture of an infant falling downstairs, but Warble couldn't make it out so its pre-natal influence didn't amount to much. Daisy Snow, innocent child, sent a beautiful edition of How to Tell Your Young, a treatise of the bird-and-bee-seed-and-pollen school, and Faith Loveman sent her own marked copy of Cooks that Have Helped Me.
"But we want it high we love it high we're restless we're keyed up, taut-strung, and hungry for soul food." "I s'pose that's the only kind you have at these meetings." Faith Loveman stared so hard that Warble made a face at her and went home. She reflected. "It was my fault. I might have known restless people wouldn't eat. And I knew I couldn't bite on their restless sex problems.
He never speaks to anyone but his wife. And she's just the same. She was Faith Loveman, you know. And they've been married two years and are still honeymoon lovers! Ah, what a fate!" Daisy sighed, a sweet little-girly sigh, and blushed like a slice of cold boiled ham. But this Who's Whosing was interrupted by a footman with a tray of cocktails.
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