k it, Robert--the shallow thinking, shallow jesting, shallow
living----"

Miss Edwards winked at Francey, and Francey looked back at her with her
understanding kindliness. It seemed to Robert that ever since Connie
Edwards had burst into the room Francey had changed. The change was
subtle and difficult to lay hold of, like Francey herself. Mentally
she was always moving about, quietly, light-footedly, just as she had
done among the bricks and rubble of their old playground, peering
thoughtfully at things which nobody else saw or looking at them from
some new point of view. You couldn't be sure what they were or why
they interested her. And now--he had almost seen her do it--she had
shifted her position, come over to Connie Edward's side, and was gazing
over her shoulder, with her own brown head tilted a little on one ear,
and was saying in Connie's vernacular:

"Well, so that's how it looks to you? And, I say, you're right. It's
a scream----"

In her mysterious way she had found something she liked in Connie
Edwards, with her awful hat and her outrageous, three-inch heels and
her common prettiness. Cosgrave obviously was crazy about her. He
seemed to cling to her because she had an insatiable hunger for the
things he couldn't afford. One could see that he had tried to model
himself to her taste. He wore a gardenia and a spotted tie. And,
bearing these insignia of vulgarity, he looked more than ever pathetic
and over-delicate.

Cosgrave was an idiot who had lost his balance. But Francey was
another matter. The Francey who had asked "And are you a good little
boy?" accepted Connie Edwards without question. Because it was
ridiculous to be hurt about it Robert grew angry with her and frowned
away from her, and talked to Mr. Ricardo as though there were no one
else in the room.

"I can't think why they didn't take it, sir. It's fine stuff. A shade
too long for a magazine article. It may have been that, of course."

But Mr. Ricardo bent down and began to gather up his manuscript. The
paper was of all kinds and sizes, covered with crabbed writing and
fierce erasures. It was oddly like himself--disordered, a little
desperate, not very clean. When he had all the sheets together he sat
with them hugged against his breast and bent closer to Christine,
speaking in a mysterious whisper.

"It's not that. Robert knows it isn't, but he doesn't care any more.
He'll say anything. But I know. I've guessed