But at present they were suppressed, all four, men and women;
suppressed and smothered as next June's flowers and weeds are held
back by the conspiracy of December's snows and the harsh criticisms
of March.
The sculptress's first name was Marguerite and Gilfoyle longed to
call her by it, after his second goblet of claret-and-water. He had
a passion for first names. He had the quick enthusiasm of a lawyer
or an advertising-man for a new client. Before he quite realized
the enormity of his perfidy he was pretending to compose a poem to
Marguerite. He wrote busily on an old bill of fare which had already
been persecuted by an artist or two. And he wrote his Anita poem
over again in Marguerite's honor, _mutatis mutandis_.
Pretty maid, pretty maid, may I say Marguerita?
Your last name is sweet, but your first name is sweeter.
And so on to the bitter end.
He slipped the lyric to Marguerite and she read it with squeals of
delight, while Gilfoyle looked as modest as such a genius could.
The other girl had to read it, of course, while Gilfoyle tried to
look unconscious. He was as successful as one is who tries to hold
a casual expression for a photograph.
The other girl's reward was a shrug and the diluted claret of
a "Very nice!" Gilfoyle said, "You're no judge or else you're
jealous." The two men read it, and said, "Mush!" and "Slushgusher!"
but Marguerite's eyes belonged to Gilfoyle the rest of the evening,
also her hands now and then.
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