Young People\'s Pride
I It is one of Johnny Chipman's parties at the Harlequin Club, and as usual the people the other people have been asked to meet are late and as usual Johnny is looking hesitatingly around at those already collected with the nervous kindliness of an absent-minded menagerie-trainer who is trying to make a happy family out of a wombat, a porcupine, and two small Scotch terriers because they are all very nice and he likes them all and he can't quite remember at the moment just where he got hold of any of them. This evening he has been making an omelet of youngest. K. Ricky French, the youngest Harvard playwright to learn the tricks of C43, a Boston exquisite, impeccably correct from his club tie to the small gold animal on his watch-chain, is almost coming to blows with Slade Wilson, the youngest San Francisco cartoonist to be tempted East by a big paper and still so new to New York that no matter where he tries to take the subway, he always finds himself buried under Times Square, over a question as to whether La Perouse or Foyot's has the best _hors-d'oeuvres_ in Paris. The conflict is taking place across Johnny's knees, both of which are being used for emphasis by the disputants till he is nearly mashed like a
ASTA. Yes, yes. But all the same--
ALLMERS. She has drawn him down into the depths--that you may be
sure of, dear.
ASTA. But, Alfred, why should she?
ALLMERS. Yes, that is just the question! Why should she? There is
no retribution behind it all--no atonement, I mean. Eyolf never did
her any harm. He never called names after her; he never threw
stones at her dog. Why, he had never set eyes either on her or her
dog till yesterday. So there is no retribution; the whole thing is
utterly groundless and meaningless, Asta.--And yet the order of the
world requires it.
ASTA. Have you spoken to Rita of these things?
ALLMERS. [Shakes his head.] I feel as if I can talk better to you
about them. [Drawing a deep breath.] And about everything else as
well.
[ASTA takes serving-materials and a little paper parcel out of her
pocket. ALLMERS sits looking on absently.]
ALLMERS. What leave you got there, Asta?
I It is one of Johnny Chipman's parties at the Harlequin Club, and as usual the people the other people have been asked to meet are late and as usual Johnny is looking hesitatingly around at those already collected with the nervous kindliness of an absent-minded menagerie-trainer who is trying to make a happy family out of a wombat, a porcupine, and two small Scotch terriers because they are all very nice and he likes them all and he can't quite remember at the moment just where he got hold of any of them. This evening he has been making an omelet of youngest. K. Ricky French, the youngest Harvard playwright to learn the tricks of C43, a Boston exquisite, impeccably correct from his club tie to the small gold animal on his watch-chain, is almost coming to blows with Slade Wilson, the youngest San Francisco cartoonist to be tempted East by a big paper and still so new to New York that no matter where he tries to take the subway, he always finds himself buried under Times Square, over a question as to whether La Perouse or Foyot's has the best _hors-d'oeuvres_ in Paris. The conflict is taking place across Johnny's knees, both of which are being used for emphasis by the disputants till he is nearly mashed like a