"I can't eat, but I'll drink. Yes, let's have a spree. It's been years
since we had one--not since we were poor. Let's not go to a _deadly_
respectable place. Let's go where there are some of the other kind,
too."

"But I must have food. Why not the Martin?"

"That'll do--though I'd prefer something a little farther up Broadway."

"The Martin is gay enough. The truth is, there's nothing really gay any
more. There's too much money. Money suffocates gayety."

To the Martin they went, and he ordered an enormous supper--one of those
incredible meals for which he was famous. They dispatched a quart of
champagne before the supper began to come, he drinking at least two
thirds of it. He drank as much while he was eating--and called for a
third bottle when the coffee was served. He had eaten half a dozen big
oysters, a whole guinea hen, a whole portion of salad, another of
Boniface cheese, with innumerable crackers.

"If I could eat as you do!" sighed Ursula enviously. "Yet it's only one
of your accomplishments."

"I'm not eating much nowadays," said he gloomily. "I'm losing my
appetite." And he lit a long black cigar and swallowed half a large
glass of the champagne. "Nothing tastes good--not even champagne."

"There _is_ something wrong with you," said Ursula. "Did you ask me out
for confidences, or for advice--or for both?"