after a short separation. They are drawing a relaxation from each other's presence, a new serenity; Maury Noble behind that fine and absurdly catlike face is all but purring. And Anthony, nervous as a will-o'-the-wisp, restless—he is at rest now.
They are engaged in one of those easy short-speech conversations that only men under thirty or men under great stress indulge in.
Anthony: Seven o'clock. Where's the Caramel? (Impatiently.) I wish he'd finish that interminable novel. I've spent more time hungry——
Maury: He's got a new name for it. "The Demon Lover "—not bad, eh?
Anthony: (interested) "The Demon Lover"? Oh "woman wailing"—No—not a bit bad! Not bad at all—d'you think?
Maury: Rather good. What time did you say?
Anthony: Seven.
Maury:(His eyes narrowing—not unpleasantly, but to express a faint disapproval) Drove me crazy the other day.
Anthony: How?
Maury: That habit of taking notes.
Anthony: Me, too. Seems I'd said something night before that he considered material but he'd forgotten it—so he had at me. He'd say "Can't you try to concentrate?" And I'd say "You bore me to tears. How do I remember?"
(Maury laughs noiselessly, by a sort of bland and appreciative widening of his features.)
Maury: Dick doesn't necessarily see more than any one else. He merely can put down a larger proportion of what he sees.
Anthony: That rather impressive talent——
Maury: Oh, yes. Impressive!
