The party has adjourned to Stovall's dog-kennel-sized apartment on West Eleventh Street with oranges and ice, Peter Piper having suddenly remembered a little place he knows where what gin is to be bought is neither diluted Croton water nor hell-fire. The long drinks gather pleasantly on the table, are consumed by all but Johnny, gather again. The talk grows more fluid, franker.

“Phil Sellaby?—-oh, the great Phil's just had a child—I mean his wife has, but Phil's been having a book all winter and it's hard not to get 'em mixed up. Know the girl he married?”

“Ran Waldo had a necking acquaintance with her at one time or another, I believe. But now she's turned serious, I hear—tres serieuse—tres bonne femme—”

“I bet his book'll be a cuckoo, then. Trouble with women. Can't do any art and be married if you're in love with your wife. Instink—instinct of creation—same thing in both cases—use it one way, not enough left for other—unless, of course, like Goethe, you—” “Rats! Look at Rossetti—Browning—-Augustus John—William Morris—”

“Browning! Dear man, when the public knows the truth about the Brownings!”

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—”

“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?”