The lights at
the tables were turned low. From the darkness laughter arose. McGregor
stared about. The people seated at the tables on the terrace caught
and held his attention and he began looking sharply at the faces of
the men. How cunning they were, these men who had been successful in
life. Were they not after all the wise men? Behind the flesh that had
grown so thick upon their bones what cunning eyes. There was a game of
life and they had played it. The garden was a part of the game. It was
beautiful and did not all that was beautiful in the world end by
serving them? The arts of men, the thoughts of men, the impulses
toward loveliness that came into the minds of men and women, did not
all these things work solely to lighten the hours of the successful?
The eyes of the men at the tables as they looked at the women who
danced were not too greedy. They were filled with assurance. Was it
not for them that the dancers turned here and there revealing their
grace? If life was a struggle had they not been successful in the
struggle?
McGregor arose from the table and left his food untouched. Near the
entrance to the gardens he stopped and leaning against a pillar looked
again at the scene before him. Upon the platform appeared a whole
troupe of women-dancers.
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