Half the revelers had gone, some assisted by friends or Denis the butler. Shrieks and scufflings were heard and in various corners drunken sprawlers babbled confidentially. The musicians had departed, but one couple danced obliviously.
| " | Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel! |
sang the redheaded Allwood girl, dress ripped at the side, who was coming out at the Athenée next week and whom tonight Beman had promised a part in his new play.
"I want to tell you how much I enjoyed your piece on Yeats," Semy said, at last achieving Kevin Doyle.
"Who are you?"
"Nobody," Semy said in his No. 1 awe-disarming manner, "but I read whatever you write."
"Go away, nobody," said Doyle.
"I want to tell you how much I admire your work. It reminds me of Rodin," Semy said to Figente.
Rodin, whose gargantuan exaggerations he thought vulgar, was anathema to Figente and he impaled Semy on the needle of his glance. "Do you really! Thank you so much!" he falsettoed, and gave Vedder's crasher the cold shoulder.
"Where have you been keeping yourself?" Lucy asked Clem as she watched Vermillion join Figente and Vedder nearby.
"I've been talking with Cynski about old Paris days. He's an interesting fellow," he replied, sick-eyed at her disinterest in him. She pretended not to notice his hurt tone. First Lyle, and now Clem. And an argument with Ranna still to come. Some Mem' Christmas! Clem and she, unable to find something to say to each other, turned and listened.
"I saw the pears. I'd like to see some more of your things," Vedder was saying to Vermillion.
"I haven't much."
"Enough for a show?"
Clem's hurt deepened. Here was Vedder offering Vermillion a show on the basis of one still life, and without his having to pay for it.
"I'm not ready."
As he had guessed, thought Clem. A one-painting painter.
"Why not let me have a few on hand?"
