“That was big, wasn’t it?” she said.
“It was. He is somebody. He gave them real meat instead of pap.”
“And they liked it,” Bambi said, reaching for her furs, her bag, and her umbrella, strewn under the seat in her trance.
“That fellow is all right. He makes you feel that there are fine, big things to be done in the world, and that you must be about it—not to-morrow, but to-day,” Jarvis said, as they pushed their way out.
“I wonder what these women are doing about it?” Bambi speculated.
“Talking.”
“Boo!” she scoffed at him.
They strolled, with the strollers, on the avenue. They ate what Jarvis dubbed “a soupçon” of lunch in a tea-shop, and to elude a dribble of rain they betook themselves to the Armory, down on Seventeenth Street, to the much-talked-of International Modern Art Exhibition.
Adam and Eve, the first day in the Garden, could not have been any more dazed than these two young things who had strayed in out of the rain. No sated sensibilities here, prodded by the constant shocks
