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Updated: May 12, 2025
"A woman took it, of course," said Rankin. "On the contrary, it was a man," said Steingall, "for the second action was more difficult than the first." "A man, certainly," said De Gollyer. "The restoration of the ring was a logical decision."
In composition it is the same thing. Nothing new nothing new since a thousand years. By George, that is true! We invent nothing, nothing!" "Take the eternal triangle," said Quinny hurriedly, not to surrender his advantage, while Rankin and De Gollyer in a bored way continued to gaze dreamily at a vagrant star or two. "Two men and a woman, or two women and a man.
"I adored her," said Lightbody, with a ring to his voice. "Not a word against her, not a word. It was not her fault. I know it's not her fault." "You must go away," said De Gollyer, touching him on the shoulder. "Oh, I must! I couldn't stand it here in this room," said Lightbody bitterly. His fingers wandered lightly over the familiar objects on the desk, shrinking from each fiery contact.
They were discussing languidly, as such groups do, seeking from each topic a peg on which to hang a few epigrams that might be retold in the lip currency of the club Steingall, the painter, florid of gesture and effete, foreign in type, with black-rimmed glasses and trailing ribbon of black silk that cut across his cropped beard and cavalry mustaches; De Gollyer, a critic, who preferred to be known as a man about town, short, feverish, incisive, who slew platitudes with one adjective and tagged a reputation with three; Rankin, the architect, always in a defensive explanatory attitude, who held his elbows on the table, his hands before his long sliding nose, and gestured with his fingers; Quinny, the illustrator, long and gaunt, with a predatory eloquence that charged irresistibly down on any subject, cut it off, surrounded it, and raked it with enfilading wit and satire; and Peters, whose methods of existence were a mystery, a young man of fifty, who had done nothing and who knew every one by his first name, the club postman, who carried the tittle-tattle, the bon mots and the news of the day, who drew up a petition a week and pursued the house committee with a daily grievance.
De Gollyer, master of himself, never abandoning his critical enjoyment, softened his voice to that controlled note that is the more effective for being opposed to frenzy. "Sit down come now, sit down!" Lightbody resisted. "Sit down, there come you have called me in. Do you want my advice? Do you? Well, just quiet down. Will you listen?" "I am quiet," said Lightbody, suddenly submissive.
California?" "No, no, I want to get away, out of the country far away." Suddenly an inspiration came to De Gollyer a memory of earlier days. "By George, Morocco! Superb! The trip we planned out Morocco the very thing!" Lightbody, at the desk still feebly fingering the leaves that he indistinctly saw, muttered: "Something far away away from people."
"Still smashing idols?" he said, slapping the shoulder of Steingall, with whom and Quinny he had passed his student days, "Well, what's the row?" "My dear Britt, we are reforming matrimony. Steingall is for the importation of Mongolian wives," said De Gollyer, who had written two favorable articles on Herkimer, "while Quinny is for founding a school for wives on most novel and interesting lines."
He drew a long breath charged with bitter memories and said between his teeth, rebelling: "I always agreed." "Can it be? Is it possible?" commented De Gollyer, carefully mastering his expression. Lightbody, on the new subject of his wrongs, now began to explode with wrath. "And there's one thing more one thing that hurts! You know what she eloped in?
I'll tell you what I'll do. You're going to get right off. You're going to be looked after. I'll knock off myself. I'll take you." Lightbody gave him his hand with a dumb, grateful look that brought a quick lump to the throat of De Gollyer, who, in terror, purposely increasing the lightness of his manner, sprang up with exaggerated gaiety. "By Jove, fact is, I'm a bit dusty myself. Do me good.
"De Gollyer, you are only a 'who's who' of art," said Quinny, with, however, a hungry gratitude for a topic of such possibilities. "You understand nothing of psychology. An artist is a multiple personality; with each picture he paints he seeks a new inspiration. What is inspiration?" "Ah, that's the point inspiration," said Steingall, waking up.
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