He must have said something, or looked something, for Axia’s voice came out of the void with a strange goodness.
“Well, look at Amory! Poor old Amory’s sick—old head going ‘round?”
“Look at that man!” cried Amory, pointing toward the corner divan.
“You mean that purple zebra!” shrieked Axia facetiously. “Ooo-ee! Amory’s got a purple zebra watching him!”
Sloane laughed vacantly.
“Ole zebra gotcha, Amory?”
There was a silence. . . . The man regarded Amory quizzically. . . . Then the human voices fell faintly on his ear:
“Thought you weren’t drinking,” remarked Axia sardonically, but her voice was good to hear; the whole divan that held the man was alive; alive like heat waves over asphalt, like wriggling worms. . . .
“Come back! Come back!” Axia’s arm fell on his. “Amory, dear, you a
