_Messrs._ BARNES _and_ PARAMORE _have been engaged in conversation upon some wholesome subject, a subject so wholesome that_ MR. BARNES _has been trying for several moments to creep into the more tainted air around the central lounge. Whether_ PARAMORE _is lingering in the gray house out of politeness or curiosity, or in order at some future time to make a sociological report on the decadence of American life, is problematical._)

MAURY: Fred, I imagined you were very broad-minded.

PARAMORE: I am.

MURIEL: Me, too. I believe one religion's as good as another and everything.

PARAMORE: There's some good in all religions.

MURIEL: I'm a Catholic but, as I always say, I'm not working at it.

PARAMORE: (_With a tremendous burst of tolerance_) The Catholic religion is a very--a very powerful religion.

MAURY: Well, such a broad-minded man should consider the raised plane of sensation and the stimulated optimism contained in this c.o.c.ktail.

PARAMORE: (_Taking the drink, rather defiantly_) Thanks, I'll try--one.

MAURY: One? Outrageous! Here we have a cla.s.s of 'nineteen ten reunion, and you refuse to be even a little pickled. Come on!

"_Here's a health to King Charles, Here's a health to King Charles, Bring the bowl that you boast_----"

(PARAMORE _joins in with a hearty voice_.)

MAURY: Fill the cup, Frederick. You know everything's subordinated to nature's purposes with us, and her purpose with you is to make you a rip-roaring tippler.

PARAMORE: If a fellow can drink like a gentleman--

MAURY: What is a gentleman, anyway?

ANTHONY: A man who never has pins under his coat lapel.

MAURY: Nonsense! A man's social rank is determined by the amount of bread he eats in a sandwich.

d.i.c.k: He's a man who prefers the first edition of a book to the last edition of a newspaper.

RACHAEL: A man who never gives an impersonation of a dope-fiend.

MAURY: An American who can fool an English butler into thinking he's one.

MURIEL: A man who comes from a good family and went to Yale or Harvard or Princeton, and has money and dances well, and all that.

MAURY: At last--the perfect definition! Cardinal Newman's is now a back number.

PARAMORE: I think we ought to look on the question more broad-mindedly.

Was it Abraham Lincoln who said that a gentleman is one who never inflicts pain?

MAURY: It's attributed, I believe, to General Ludendorff.

PARAMORE: Surely you're joking.

MAURY: Have another drink.

PARAMORE: I oughtn't to. (_Lowering his voice for_ MAURY'S _ear alone_) What if I were to tell you this is the third drink I've ever taken in my life?

(d.i.c.k _starts the phonograph, which provokes_ MURIEL _to rise and sway from side to side, her elbows against her ribs, her forearms perpendicular to her body and out like fins._)

MURIEL: Oh, let's take up the rugs and dance!

(_This suggestion is received by_ ANTHONY _and_ GLORIA _with interior groans and sickly smiles of acquiescence._)

MURIEL: Come on, you lazy-bones. Get up and move the furniture back.

d.i.c.k: Wait till I finish my drink.

MAURY: (_Intent on his purpose toward_ PARAMORE) I'll tell you what.

Let's each fill one gla.s.s, drink it off and then we'll dance.

(_A wave of protest which breaks against the rock of_ MAURY'S _insistence._)

MURIEL: My head is simply going _round_ now.

RACHAEL: (_In an undertone to_ ANTHONY) Did Gloria tell you to stay away from me?

ANTHONY: (_Confused_) Why, certainly not. Of course not.

(RACHAEL _smiles at him inscrutably. Two years have given her a sort of hard, well-groomed beauty._)

MAURY: (_Holding up his gla.s.s_) Here's to the defeat of democracy and the fall of Christianity.

MURIEL: Now really!

(_She flashes a mock-reproachful glance at_ MAURY _and then drinks._

_They all drink, with varying degrees of difficulty._)

MURIEL: Clear the floor!

(_It seems inevitable that this process is to be gone through, so_ ANTHONY _and_ GLORIA _join in the great moving of tables, piling of chairs, rolling of carpets, and breaking of lamps. When the furniture has been stacked in ugly ma.s.ses at the sides, there appears a s.p.a.ce about eight feet square._)

MURIEL: Oh, let's have music!

MAURY: Tana will render the love song of an eye, ear, nose, and throat specialist.

(_Amid some confusion due to the fact that_ TANA _has retired for the night, preparations are made for the performance. The pajamaed j.a.panese, flute in hand, is wrapped in a comforter and placed in a chair atop one of the tables, where he makes a ludicrous and grotesque spectacle._ PARAMORE _is perceptibly drunk and so enraptured with the notion that he increases the effect by simulating funny-paper staggers and even venturing on an occasional hiccough._)

PARAMORE: (_To_ GLORIA) Want to dance with me?

GLORIA: No, sir! Want to do the swan dance. Can you do it?