It all melted away before the intentness of
Claire's expression. Peyton was doggedly holding to the rim of the
table; Gilbert Bromhead was very close to Evadore; the black sheath of
her hair had slipped and her eyes were blank; the blanched delicate
hand of the South nearest Christian Wager had disappeared, Christian's
hand on that side could not be seen. Peyton once more filled the
glasses:
"It must all go," Claire insisted; "I won't have a drop left."
Wager's sentimentality overflowed in approved and well-established
channels: Princeton was their mother, their sacred alma--alma mater.
Here, under Peyton's roof, they had gathered to renew ... friendships
unbroken with their wives, their true wives; oceans couldn't separate
them, nor time, nor--nor silver locks among the gold. They must come to
London next December: anniversary of mutual happiness and success. Take
the children, the sons of old Princeton, to Christmas pantomine.
"Once," Evadore told them, "I went to a night club. Do you know what
that is, over here? I don't believe I can explain it; but there are
quantities of champagne and men and principally girls; but they're not
girls at all, if you see what I mean, not by several accidents. It
would have been splendid, but I got sick, and it turned into a ghastly
mess, mostly in the cab. That was rather thick, wasn't it?"
Claire rose, and Lee Randon heard her say, under her breath, "Oh hell";
but there was another full bottle, and she had to sit again.
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