Ricky French is getting a little drunk but it shows itself only in a desire
to make every sentence unearthly cogent with perfect words.

"Unhappy marriage--ver' good--stimula-shion," he says, carefully but
unsteadily, "other thing--tosh!"

Peter 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--"