Despair and hunger now were talking out of his eyes. They had come too
close to his words. They must never come into his words. That would be the
one defeat that would drive too deeply into him. Of the past, of the
easygoing, charmingly garrulous past, all that was left to this nomad of
letters was its manner. He could still sit in his rags as if he were
lounging in the salon of an ocean liner, still gesture with his
nose-glasses as if he were fixing the attention of a Richard Harding
Davis across a bottle of Chateau Yquem.
So he remained silent. Let his eyes and the twitching of his face betray
him. His words never would. His words would always be the well-groomed,
carefully modulated, nicely considerate words of a gentleman. He resumed:
"So you have nothing. Ah, that's rather--rather disturbing. Just a
moment--please. I don't mean to impose on you. Won't you sit down--so I
will feel more at ease? Thank you, sir. Perhaps there is something in the
way of a--of another kind of job. Anything about a theater, a newspaper
office, a magazine, a circus, an hotel. I know them all. And if you could
only keep an eye open for me. Thank you, sir. I am glad to see that men of
letters are still considerate of their fellow craftsmen.
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