"Drop it! Oh, drop it!" growled Rhodes, and sent a handful of
billiard chalk at the singer.

Mr Clifford returned a volley of the Cafe spoons, and continued:

Mais c'que je trouve de plus bete,
C'est qu' i' faut financer
Avec ma belle galette,
J'aimerai mieux m'amuser.

Several other voices took up the refrain, lamenting the difficulty of
reconciling their filial duties with balls at Bullier's, and
protesting that they would rather amuse themselves than consider
financial questions. Rhodes sipped his curacoa sulkily.

"The longer I live in the Latin Quarter," he said to his neighbor,
"the less certain I feel about a place of future punishment. It would
be so tame after this." Then, reverting to his grievance, he added,
"The slaughter this year at the Salon is awful."

Reginald Gethryn stirred nervously but did not speak.

"Have a game, Rex?" called Clifford, waving a cue.

Gethryn shook his head, and reaching for a soiled copy of the Figaro,
glanced listlessly over its contents. He sighed and turned his paper
impatiently. Rhodes echoed the sigh.

"What's at the theaters?"