He had been given a
high-salaried post at the ship-yards--the duties of which, if there had
been any, he performed wherever he happened to be. Morrison's father had
made a fortune in leather during the war. And Carley remembered Glenn
telling her he had seen two whole blocks in Paris piled twenty feet deep
with leather army goods that were never used and probably had never been
intended to be used. Morrison represented the not inconsiderable number of
young men in New York who had gained at the expense of the valiant legion
who had lost. But what had Morrison gained? Carley raised her eyes to gaze
steadily at him. He looked well-fed, indolent, rich, effete, and supremely
self-satisfied. She could not see that he had gained anything. She would
rather have been a crippled ruined soldier.
"Larry, I fear gain and loss are mere words," she said. "The thing that
counts with me is what you are."
He stared in well-bred surprise, and presently talked of a new dance which
had lately come into vogue. And from that he passed on to gossip of the
theatres. Once between courses of the dinner he asked Carley to dance, and
she complied. The music would have stimulated an Egyptian mummy, Carley
thought, and the subdued rose lights, the murmur of gay voices, the glide
and grace and distortion of the dancers, were exciting and pleasurable.
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