"And so," I said in my soul, as the men redistributed themselves, "she is married,--married while you were pottering with books and the turn of phrases and immortality and such trifles--oh, you ass! And to a man named Barry-Smith--damn him, I wonder whether he is the hungry scut that hasn't had his hair cut this fall, or the blancmange-bellied one with the mashed-strawberry nose? Yes, I know everybody else. And Jimmy Travis is telling a funny story, so laugh! People will think you are grieving over Rosalind.... But why in heaven's name isn't Jimmy at home this very moment,--with a wife and carpet-slippers and a large-size bottle of paregoric on his mantelpiece,--instead of here, grinning like a fool over some blatant indecency? He ought to marry; every young man ought to marry. Oh, you futile, abject, burbling twin-brother of the first patron that procured a reputation for Bedlam! why aren't you married--married years ago,--with a home of your own, and a victoria for Mrs. Townsend and bills from the kindergarten every quarter? Oh, you bartender of verbal cocktails! I believe your worst enemy flung your mind at you in a moment of unbridled hatred."
So I snapped the stem of my glass carefully, and scowled with morose disapproval at the unconscious Mr. Travis, and his now-applauded and very Fescennine jest....
