Young Peoples Pride | Page 4

did, except for a few chance lucky
people--"
"The trouble with Art is women."
"The trouble with women is Art."
"The trouble with Art--with women, I mean--change signals! What do I
mean?"

IV
Oliver is taking Ted out to Melgrove with him over Sunday for
suburban fresh-air and swimming, so the two just manage to catch the
12.53 from the Grand Central, in spite of Slade Wilson's invitation to
talk all night and breakfast at the Brevoort. They spend the rattling,
tunnel-like passage to 125th Street catching their breath again, a breath
that seems to strike a florid gentlemen in a dirty collar ahead of them
with an expression of permanent, sorrowful hunger. Then Ted remarks
reflectively,
"Nice gin."
"Uh-huh. Not floor varnish anyway like most of this prohibition stuff.
What think of the people?"
"Interesting but hardly conclusive. Liked the Wilson lad. Peter, of
course, and Johnny. The French person rather young Back Bay, don't
you think?"
Oliver smiles. The two have been through Yale, some of the war and
much of the peace together, and the fact has inevitably developed a
certain quality of being able to talk to each other in shorthand.

"Well, Groton plus Harvard--it always gets a little inhuman especially
Senior year--but gin had a civilizing influence. Lucky devil!"
"Why?"
"Baker's newest discovery--yes, it does sound like a patent medicine.
Don't mean that, but he has a play on the road--sure-fire, Johnny
says--Edward Sheldon stuff--Romance--"
"The Young Harvard Romantic. An Essay Presented to the Faculty of
Yale University by Theodore Billett for the Degree of--"
"Heard anything about your novel, Oliver?"
"Going to see my pet Mammon of Unrighteousness about it in a couple
of weeks. Oh _Lord!_"
"Present--not voting."
"Don't be cheap, Ted. If I could only make some money."
"Everybody says that there is money in advertising," Ted quotes
maliciously. "Where have I heard that before?"
_"That's_ what anybody says about anything till they try it. Well, there
is--but not in six months for a copy-writer at Vanamee and Co.
Especially when the said copy-writer has to have enough to marry on."
"And will write novels when he ought to be reading, 'How I Sold
America on Ossified Oats' like a good little boy. Young people are so
impatient."
"Well, good Lord, Ted, we've been engaged eight months already and
we aren't getting any furtherer--"
"Remember the copybooks, my son. The love of a pure, good woman
and the one-way pocket--that's what makes the millionaires. Besides,
look at Isaac."
"Well, I'm no Isaac. And Nancy isn't Rebekah, praises be! But it is
an--emotional strain. On both of us."
"Well, all you have to do is sell your serial rights. After that--pie."
"I know. The trouble is, I can see it so plain if everything happens
right--and then--well--"
Ted is not very consoling.
"People get funny ideas about each other when they aren't close by.
Even when they're in love," he says rather darkly; and then, for no
apparent reason, "Poor Billy. See it?"
Oliver has, unfortunately--the announcement that the engagement
between Miss Flavia Marston of Detroit and Mr. William Curting of

New York has been broken by mutual consent was an inconspicuous
little paragraph in the morning papers. "That was all--just funny ideas
and being away. And then this homebred talent came along," Ted
muses.
"Well, you're the hell of a--"
Ted suddenly jerks into consciousness of what he has been saying.
"Sorry" he says, completely apologetic, "didn't mean a word I said, just
sorry for Billy, poor guy. 'Fraid it'll break him up pretty bad at first."
This seems to make matters rather worse and he changes the subject
abruptly. "How's Nancy?" he asks with what he hopes seems
disconnected indifference.
"Nancy? All right. Hates St. Louis, of course."
"Should think she might, this summer. Pretty hot there, isn't it?"
"Says it's like a wet furnace. And her family's bothering her some."
"Um, too bad."
"Oh, I don't mind. But it's rotten for her. They don't see the point
exactly--don't know that I blame them. She could be in Paris, now--that
woman was ready to put up the money. My fault."
"Well, she seems to like things better the way they are--God knows
why, my antic friend! If it were my question between you and a year
studying abroad! Not that you haven't your own subtle attractions,
Ollie." Ted has hoped to irritate Oliver into argument by the closing
remark, but the latter only accepts it with militant gloom.
"Yes, I've done her out of that, too," he says abysmally, "as well as
sticking her in St. Louis while I stay here and can't even drag down
enough money to support her--"
"Oh, Ollie, snap out of it! That's only being dramatic. You know darn
well you will darn soon. I'll be saying