But she had her mission to perform, and she waited until they restlessly
changed the subject.
They discussed current plays and seemed to get out of them far more than
the author ever put in. They talked of a picture exhibit at the Gauguin
Galleries, but this was as Choctaw to Warble; not a word could she
understand.
"Are you of the cognoscenti?" asked Faith Loveman of Warble. "I know all
about art but I don't know what I like," she returned, blushing prettily.
"Oh, we'll teach you that. That's what this club is for, to help us to
find ourselves, to give our restlessness an outlet to express the ego in
our cosmos and illumine the dark patches of our souls. We're riding the
pace that kills, living at the tension that snaps, blowing the bubble that
breaks. We need an outlet--a vent--you understand?"
"Yop," said Warble, "your soul pressure is too high."
"But we want it high--we love it high--we're restless--we're keyed up,
taut-strung, and hungry for soul food."
"I s'pose that's the only kind you have at these meetings."
Faith Loveman stared so hard that Warble made a face at her and went home.
* * * * *
She reflected.
"It was my fault. I might have known restless people wouldn't eat. And I
knew I couldn't bite on their restless sex problems.
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