"Here, Gordon. You're ridiculous. You're hurting me. You're acting
like a--like a crazy man--"
"I admit it. I'm a little crazy. Something's wrong with me, Edith.
There's something left me. It doesn't matter."
"It does, tell me."
"Just that. I was always queer--little bit different from other boys.
All right in college, but now it's all wrong. Things have been
snapping inside me for four months like little hooks on a dress, and
it's about to come off when a few more hooks go. I'm very gradually
going loony."
He turned his eyes full on her and began to laugh, and she shrank away
from him.
"What _is_ the matter?"
"Just me," he repeated. "I'm going loony. This whole place is like a
dream to me--this Delmonico's--"
As he talked she saw he had changed utterly. He wasn't at all light
and gay and careless--a great lethargy and discouragement had come
over him. Revulsion seized her, followed by a faint, surprising
boredom. His voice seemed to come out of a great void.
"Edith," he said, "I used to think I was clever, talented, an artist.
Now I know I'm nothing. Can't draw, Edith. Don't know why I'm telling
you this."
She nodded absently.
"I can't draw, I can't do anything. I'm poor as a church mouse." He
laughed, bitterly and rather too loud. "I've become a damn beggar, a
leech on my friends. I'm a failure. I'm poor as hell."
Her distaste was growing.
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