r Piper jerks a thumb in Oliver's direction.

"Oh, beg pardon! Engaged, you told me? Beg pardon--sorry--very. Writes?"

"Uh-huh. Book of poetry three years ago. Novel now he's trying to sell."

"Oh, yes, yes, yes. Remember. 'Dancers' Holiday'--he wrote that? Good
stuff, damn good. Too bad. Feenee. Why will they get married?"

The conversation veers toward a mortuary discussion of love. Being
young, nearly all of them are anxious for, completely puzzled by and
rather afraid of it, all at the same time. They wish to draw up one
logical code to cover its every variation; they look at it, as it is at
present with the surprised displeasure of florists at a hollyhock that
will come blue when by every law of variation it should be rose. It is
only a good deal later that they will be able to give, not blasphemy
because the rules of the game are always mutually inconsistent, but
tempered thanks that there are any rules at all. Now Ricky French
especially has the air of a demonstrating anatomist over an anesthetized
body. "Observe, gentlemen--the carotid artery lies here. Now, inserting
the scalpel at this point--"

"The trouble with Art is that it doesn't pay a decent living wage unless
you're willing to commercialize--"

"The trouble with Art is that it never did, except for a few chance
lucky people--"

"The trouble with Art is women."

"The trouble with women is Art."

"The trouble with Art--with women, I mean--change signals! What do I
mean?"

IV

Oliver is taking Ted out to Melgrove with him over Sunday for suburban
fresh-air and swimming, so the two just manage to catch the 12.53 from
the Grand Central, in spite of Slade Wilson's invitation to talk
all night and breakfast at the Brevoort. They spend the rattling,
tunnel-like passage to 125th Street catching their breath again, a
breath that seems to strike a florid gentlemen in a dirty collar ahead
of them with an expression of permanent, sorrowful hunger. Then Ted
remarks reflectively,

"Nice gin."

"Uh-huh. Not floor varnish anyway like most of this prohibition stuff.
What think of the people?"

"Interesting but hardly conclusive. Liked the Wilson lad. Peter, of
course, and Johnny. The French person rather young Back Bay, don't you
think?"

Oliver smiles. The two have been through Yale, some of the war and much
of the peace together, and the fact has inevitably developed a certain
quality of being able to talk to each other in shorthand.

"Wel