Chapter Seventy-Three
Where before, the murders—remember those?—had tended to rather put off the enthusiasm of guests for leaving their rooms when not absolutely necessary, the increasingly prevailing mood of insouciance led them to wander about, heedless of just about everything, wherever their fancies steered them. Thus, the clatter of cutlery in the dining room had practically resumed its earlier volume, and this evening, in addition to Enid, Genevra and Rosella at one table, many of our beloved characters could be found enjoying what little food remained to be served. Enid, in between giggles with her girlfriends, noticed, while raising a brown, rather shrivelled green bean to her lips on a fork, a somewhat despondent Bartoff, sat by himself, his food lain uneaten. Aloysius passed by his table, and Bartoff pulled him down for a word, and Aloysius went off. Bartoff sat sullenly some more, until Poor Larry happened by, and Bartoff had a word with him, too, then waited again. Finally, Mifkin exited the kitchen and strode up to his lover’s table, whereupon Bartoff rose and proceeded to subject him to a profane harangue the substance of which was lost on the bystanders, but the tone of which was not in doubt. Evidently dissatisfied with Mifkin’s reply, Bartoff struck him once on the left cheek, once on the right, and stalked out. Mifkin stood, physically unhurt, but emotionally distraught. After a mere moment, Bartoff came running back, weeping, sank to his knees, begged forgiveness, received it, and embraced his love. Both were in tears, and their ecstatic relief was shared by every onlooker that day.
Only Gangakanta, sitting at a table by the wall, noted Bartoff’s temper and immense physical strength, and wondered at its possible applications, but soon returned to his favourite topic of late—the frivolousness of a logical life—and thought no more about it.