“Come back,” said Gatewood coldly.

“But my suit case—­”

“You left it at the Lee’s, didn’t you?  Well, you’ve time enough to go there, get it, make your train, and listen to me, too.  Look here, Kerns, have you any of the elements of decency about you?”

“No,” said Kerns, “not a single element.”  He seated himself defiantly in the club window facing Gatewood and began to button his gloves.  When he had finished he settled his new straw hat more comfortably on his head, and, leaning forward and balancing his malacca walking stick across his knees, gazed at Gatewood with composure.

“Crank up!” he said pleasantly; “I’m going in less than three minutes.”  He pushed the electric knob as an afterthought, and when the gilt buttons of the club servant glimmered through the dusk, “Two more,” he explained briskly.  After a few moments’ silence, broken by the tinkle of ice in thin glassware, Gatewood leaned forward, menacing his friend with an impressive forefinger: 

“Did you or didn’t you once tell me that a decent citizen ought to marry?”

“I did, dear friend.”

“Did I or didn’t I do it?”

“In the words of the classic, you done it,” admitted Kerns.

“Was I or wasn’t I going to the devil before I had the sense to marry?” persisted Gatewood.

“You was!  You was, dear friend!” said Kerns with enthusiasm.  “You had almost went there ere I appeared and saved you.”

“Then why shouldn’t you marry and let me save you?”

“But I’m not going to the bowwows. I’m all right.  I’m a decent citizen.  I awake in the rosy dawn with a song on my lips; I softly whistle rag time as I button my collar; I warble a few delicious vagrant notes as I part my sparse hair; I’m not murderous before breakfast; I go down town, singing, to my daily toil; I fish for fat contracts in Georgia marble; I return uptown immersed in a holy calm and the evening paper.  I offer myself a cocktail; I bow and accept; I dress for dinner with the aid of a rascally valet, but—­do I swear at him?  No, dear friend; I say, ’Henry, I have known far, far worse scoundrels than you.  Thank you for filling up my bay rum with water.  Bless you for wearing my imported hosiery!  I deeply regret that my new shirts do not fit you, Henry!’ And my smile is a benediction upon that wayward scullion.  Then, dear friend, why, why do you desire to offer me up upon the altar of unrest?  What is a little wifey to me or I to any wifey?”

“Because,” said Gatewood irritated, “you offered me up.  I’m happy and I want you to be—­you great, hulking, self-satisfied symbol of supreme self-centered selfishness—­”

“Oh, splash!” said Kerns feebly.

“Yes, you are.  What do you do all day?  Grub for money and study how to make life agreeable to yourself!  Every minute of the day you are occupied in having a good time!  You’ve admitted it!  You wake up singing like a fool canary; you wear imported hosiery; you’ve made a soft, warm wallow for yourself at this club, and here you bask your life away, waddling downtown to nail contracts and cut coupons, and uptown to dinners and theaters, only to return and sprawl here in luxury without one single thought for posterity. Your crime is race suicide!”