Part 15 (1/2)

”You said such lovely, lovely things,” she said. ”And I'd never known, all this time, how you had been feeling about me, and I'd never dared to let you see how I felt about you. And then last night-oh, Peter dear, I think that taxi ride was the most important thing that ever happened to us in our lives.”

”Yes,” he said. ”I guess it must have been.”

”And we're going to be so happy,” she said. ”Oh, I just want to tell everybody! But I don't know-I think maybe it would be sweeter to keep it all to ourselves.”

”I think it would be,” he said.

”Isn't it lovely?” she said.

”Yes,” he said. ”Great.”

”Lovely!” she said.

”Look here,” he said, ”do you mind if I have a drink? I mean, just medicinally, you know. I'm off the stuff for life, so help me. But I think I feel a collapse coming on.”

”Oh, I think it would do you good,” she said. ”You poor boy, it's a shame you feel so awful. I'll go make you a whisky and soda.”

”Honestly,” he said, ”I don't see how you could ever want to speak to me again, after I made such a fool of myself, last night. I think I'd better go join a monastery in Tibet.”

”You crazy idiot!” she said. ”As if I could ever let you go away now! Stop talking like that. You were perfectly fine.”

She jumped up from the couch, kissed him quickly on the forehead, and ran out of the room.

The pale young man looked after her and shook his head long and slowly, then dropped it in his damp and trembling hands.

”Oh, dear,” he said. ”Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear.”

The New Yorker, February 23, 1929.

The Cradle of Civilization.

The two young New Yorkers sat on the cool terrace that rose sharp from the Mediterranean, and looked into deep gin fizzes, embellished, in the Riviera manner, with mint. They were dressed, the girl and the young man, in identical garments; but anyone could easily have distinguished between him and her. Their costumes seemed to have been a.s.sembled in compliment to the general region of their Summer visit, lest any one district feel slighted; they wore berets, striped fis.h.i.+ng-s.h.i.+rts, wide-legged cotton trousers, and rope-soled espadrilles. Thus, a French-man, summering at an American resort, might have attired himself in a felt sombrero, planter's overalls, and rubber hip-boots.

A bay of smooth, silent water stretched between their backs and the green and white island where the Man in the Iron Mask had been pris oned, his face shrouded in black velvet and hope in his sick heart. To their right, back of the long rocks, lay the town the Phoenicians founded, and beyond it the four-pointed fort that the wise had proclaimed, when Vauban planned it, would end all war for all time. The mild harbor to which Napoleon had come back from Elba dented the sh.o.r.e to their left. Far in the hills above their lowered eyes hung the little vertical city from the walls of which the last of the relayed signal fires had risen, to flame back to Italy the news of Caesar's fresh conquests in Gaul. . . .

”Come on, sea-pig,” the young man said. ”Get rid of that, and we'll fasten onto another. Oh, garcon. Encore deux jeen feezes, tou de suite.”

”Yes, sir,” his waiter said.

”And mettez un peu more de jeen in them cette fois, baby,” the young man said. ”Atta boy. Wonderful little yellow race, these French.”

”They're crazy,” the girl said. ”You should have seen that poor nut Bill and I crashed into, driving back from the Casino at four o'clock this morning. My G.o.d, all we did was bust his b.u.mper a little, and you'd have thought we'd killed him. He kept screaming all this stuff about why did these Americans come over here, anyway. And there was Bill, so tight he couldn't see, yelling right back at him, 'Yes, and if we hadn't come over, this would be Germany now.' I never laughed so hard in my life.”

”Casino any good last night?” he said.

”Oh, it was all right,” she said. ”Bill lost eighty-five thousand francs.”

”How much is that in money?” he said.

”Lord knows,” she said. ”I can't be bothered figuring. We didn't stay long. I was in bed by half-past four.”

”I got in at seven,” he said. ”And woke up at eleven o'clock, still stewed.”

”What did you do all evening?” she said.

”I don't remember much about it,” he said. ”I must have barged all around. There was one place where I got up and led the orchestra-I guess that must have been at the Splendide. Oh, yes, I remember now. And Bob Weed got this idea in his head he wanted to play a violin, and this Frog violinist they have in the orchestra wouldn't let him have his, and the thing got broken in the struggle, and the Frog cried. Honestly. Cried his head off. Bob gave him five hundred francs.”

”He's crazy,” she said. ”A hundred would have been more than enough.”

”Well, Bob was drunk,” he said.

”I'm crazy about the Splendide,” she said. ”It's just like the Desert Club, back in New York.”

”There was a good crowd there last night,” he said. ”Lady Sylvia Goring was giving a big party.”

”Was she tight?” she said.

”Oh, sure,” he said. ”To the eyes. Gosh, she's an attractive jane. I think I'll have to go to work on that.”

”You haven't a chance,” she said. ”She only likes chauffeurs and sailors. Who else was there?”

”Oh, tout le monde,” he said. ”The whole bunch.”

”I wish we'd gone,” she said. ”But Bill couldn't have made it. He couldn't have kept on his feet for the President of France-whoever that may be.”

”It's Poincare or however you say it, isn't it?” he said. ”Or somebody.”

”Well, it's my idea of nothing to worry about,” she said. ”I've got other things to think of. Oh, look. See that girl over there?”

She pointed to a neighboring table where sat four other heirs of the ages, two young women and two young men, all with New York in their voices, all dressed in fis.h.i.+ng-s.h.i.+rts and berets and wide trousers.

”The one that forgot her bra.s.siere?” he said.

”No,” she said, ”the one with her feet in the man's lap. Well, she's the one that gave that marvelous party last week, where a lot of people got tight and went in swimming off the rocks with nothing on, and she had big searchlights played on them. Isn't that the most divine idea?”

”That was before I came down from Paris,” he said. ”I was still trying to get out of the Ritz bar, last week. Who's the pansy she's got her feet on?”

”I think he writes or something,” she said. ”There's an awful mob of those kind of people around here. Somebody said What's-his-name was here last year-you know, writes all those plays. Oh, you know. Shaw.”

”He must have looked great,” he said, ”in swimming with a beard on.”