Ah, life and letters
were talked about a great deal in those days."
* * * * *
His voice had the sound of a man casually relating incidents of his past.
But his eyes continued to shine eagerly. And between sentences there were
curious pauses. The pauses asked something.
"A most curious thing occurred the other evening," he smiled. "I had to
pay for my oysters by writing a rhyme for the waiter." An anecdote by a
dilettante, a gracefully turned plea worthy of M'sieur Bruinrmell. "You
know, it grows more and more difficult to obtain employment. My wardrobe
is practically gone." He glanced with apparent amusement at his
weary-willie makeup. His hand moved tremblingly to his neck. "My collar is
soiled," he murmured, apologizing with eyes that managed to smile, "and
the other evening I lost my stick."
Then the hunger and the hopelessness of the man broke through the shell of
his manner. He needed a job, a job, a job! Something to do to get him food
and shelter. His fingers tried to place the cracked nose-glasses back in
position.
"I would--pardon me for mentioning this--I would much rather sit with a
man like you and discuss the phases of life and literature of interest to
both of us.
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