“Alabama,” said David sententiously, “that’s impractical. You’ve become nothing but an aesthetic theory—a chemistry formula for the decorative.”
“There’s nothing we can do with two dollars anyway,” she protested in a logical tone.
“I s’pose not——”
There they are, the Knights, dancing together,” they said, “isn’t it nice? There they go.”
“Listen, Alabama, you’re not keeping time,” David was saying.
“David, for God’s sake will you try to keep off of my feet?”
“I never could waltz anyway.”
People were tired of the proletariat—everybody was famous. All the other people who weren’t well known had been killed in the war; there wasn’t much interest in private lives.
