So Little Time by John P. Marquand Page A

was all. It was uncomplicated, but if Jeffrey had said it, he knew he would have sounded like a fool. Minot and Madge were speaking a language which he would never speak, but he felt no resentment. Madge had had her chance once and she had wanted him, not Minot. There had been times when Jeffrey had been amazed at that effort of Madge’s at natural selection, and times when he was certain that Madge had made a mistake in not marrying a man with a background like her own, but now he was not so sure. It may have been that Madge had been endowed with a flash of intuition, an instinct for survival in that desire she once had possessed for change. There was something about Minot which was static, a little like the face of a clock which no longer ticked. It did not change Jeffrey’s affection for him, but there it was. He had never thought before of Minot as a type, but that was what he was; and now—it may have been because the world was shaking with the new war—the type was a little outmoded, a little dry and sterile: beautiful, but of no present use. It was so exactly like the portrait beside the whisky bottle of distinction that Jeffrey wished he had not thought of it. It was not right. It was disturbing to think that the world might no longer have time for what Minot Roberts represented, and it was not because Minot was old. It was because he looked so young.
    Minot looked at him as he always did whenever they met.
    â€œHi, boy,” Minot said.
    â€œHi,” Jeffrey answered.
    It meant that they were very old friends, but Jeffrey could never convey in that monosyllable all that Minot could.
    Jeffrey poured three of gin and one of vermouth into the cocktail shaker and stirred it carefully because Minot was always particular about Martinis.
    â€œIt’s better to have one here before we go,” Jeffrey said; “they always have bad cocktails at the dinner.”
    Minot smiled at him and the little wrinkles narrowed about the corners of his eyes. “Boy,” he said, “that’s a good idea. We’ll have one with Madge.”
    Jeffrey looked up from the shaker.
    â€œHere, you’d better do it.”
    â€œIt’s all in the lemon,” Minot said. “Just the outside peel—That batman cuts the peel too thick, Jeff, but don’t let it bother you, here we are.”
    None of it ever spilled when Minot poured Martinis. His lean bronzed hand was as steady as a surgeon’s.
    â€œHere you are, darling,” he said to Madge, as he handed her a glass. “Down the hatch and happy days.”
    That speech was not trite when Minot spoke it; it glowed with kindly hospitality, and it made Madge laugh.
    â€œMinot,” she said, “why is it you always give me a sense of security?”
    â€œThat isn’t kind,” Minot said. “Whenever I show up, dear, the Romans always hide their wives. You know, I’ve just thought of something.”
    â€œDon’t keep it to yourself,” Jeffrey said, “be sure to tell us, Minot.” But he said it affectionately as one would to one’s best friend.
    â€œIt’s a poem,” Minot said, “it’s been running through my head all day. It goes something like this: ‘Four things greater than all things are, Women and horses and power and war.’ We’ve got them all now, haven’t we?”
    It was exactly what Minot should have said, being what he was.
    â€œMaybe we’d better be pushing on,” Jeffrey said.
    â€œWhy, Jeffrey,” Madge said, “don’t be so rude. Minot’s only just come.”
    â€œHe knows what I mean,” Jeffrey answered. “We’ve got to be going, to the war, at the Contact Club.”
    â€œThat’s right,” Minot said. “It’s time we were up and over the lines. I’ve got the car downstairs, but I’ll tell you what we’ll do first.”
    â€œWe’ll have another drink,” Jeffrey