“Bakst,” said his friend, jerking a hand about to show the walls of grey paint where strange beasts cavorted among spiked trees, above the mixed and coloured motion of the crowd. An American was playing ragtime at the gold piano, in a clot of women. Choute Aurec was teaching a British aviator some new dance. Beyond, a mass of women and officers surrounded a lean shape on a divan. They gazed, gaped, craned at the young man. His decorations twinkled in the glow. His blue chest stirred when he spoke and his teeth flashed. Gurdy’s companion murmured, “They say he’s got ten times more sense than most prize-fighters.... I think that thin man’s Bernstein--the one with a dinner jacket. You get drinks in the next room. Oh, there’s Alixe!” He ran off. Gurdy slid through the mingling harlots and warriors into the next, cooler room, fringed with men drinking champagne. An American colonel glared at him over a glass, shifted the glare back to a handsome ensign who had penned a blond girl in a corner. Gurdy found a tray covered with sandwiches and ate one, pondering. He wondered whether the ensign would go on trying to kiss the girl if he knew that she had been, last month, on trial for the technical murder of an octogenarian general. Well, morals were illusory, too. Some one slapped his shoulder. He saw Ian Gail. The playwright was dressed as a British captain. “Intelligence,” he said, “I’m too old and adipose for anything else. And we shouldn’t be here, should we? A poisonous place.” “Funny mixture.” “Pride,” said Gail, “The poor woman can’t stand being neglected so she gives these atrocious parties. But it’s nice running into you, old son. I’d a letter from Mark yesterday. He told me you were here and I was coming to look you up tomorrow in any case. I’m just from London. Olive Ilden and Margot are hoping you’ll get leave to come over for Christmas. Can’t you?” “I don’t quite see how I can, sir.” “But do try. I think you’d cheer Olive up. Margot’s a jolly little thing but frightfully busy celebrating the peace. How decent of Mark to let her stay with Olive! I fancied he’d take her back to the States directly the war began.” “Submarines,” Gurdy said, “But why does Mrs. Ilden need cheering up, sir? She used to be an awfully cheerful sort of person.” “Oh,” said Gail, “her boy--Bobby.” “I hadn’t heard he--” “Fell a year ago. Do try to run over.... How pretty Margot is!” Gurdy ate another sandwich, correcting champagne. There would be long illusions after this war. Grudges, idealized memories of trivial folk. But he was sorry for Olive Ilden. He said, “I’ll try to get over. I’ll--” Choute Aurec ran through the doorway, yelped, “Ariane va danser, messieurs, dames!” and darted out again. “What did that incontinent little brute say?” Gail asked. “I think Miss Joyce is going to dance,” said Gurdy. “It’s disgusting,” the Englishman snorted, “Some cad always flatters her into dancing and the poor woman falls on her face. Don’t go.”