Part 19 (1/2)

”But certainly,” the young woman said, for she had recently returned from France. ”But of course.”

She lent him room on the little sofa where she sat, light and languid, and he rested none too easily beside her. He set his gaze upon her face, nor did he take it away.

”You know, this is terribly nice of you to let me do this,” he said. ”It's-well, what I mean is, I was afraid maybe you wouldn't.”

”But no!” she said.

”You see,” he said, ”I've been looking at you all evening. At least, I couldn't get my eyes off of you. Honest. First thing I saw you, I tried to get Marge to introduce me, but she's been so busy fixing drinks and everything, I couldn't get near her. And then I saw you come and sit here, all by yourself, and I've been trying to get up my nerve to come over and talk to you. I thought you might be sore or something, at least. I'd get all set to start over, and then I'd think, 'Oh, she's so sweet and pretty, she'll just give me the b.u.m's rush.' I thought you'd be sore or something, me coming over and talking to you without an introduction, I mean.”

”Oh, non,” she said. ”Why, I'd never dream of being sore. Abroad, you know, they say the roof is an introduction.”

”Beg pardon?” he said.

”That's what they say abroad,” she said. ”In Paris and places. You go to a party, and the person that's giving the party doesn't introduce anybody to anybody. They just take it for granted that everybody will talk to everybody else, because they take it for granted that their friends are their friends' friends. Comprenez-vous? Oh, I'm sorry. Slips. I must stop talking French. Only it's so hard, once you get into the habit of rattling it off. I mean, see what I mean? Why, I'd forgotten all about people having to be introduced to other people at a party.”

”Well, I'm certainly glad you aren't sore,” he said. ”At least, it's wonderful for me. Only maybe you'd rather be alone, here. Would you?”

”Oh, non, non, non, non, non,” she said. ”Goodness, no. I was just sitting here, watching everybody. I feel as if I don't know a soul since I've come back. But it's so interesting, just to sit and watch the way people behave and their clothes and everything. You feel as if you were in another world. Well, you know how you feel when you've come back from being abroad. Don't you?”

”I've never been abroad,” he said.

”Oh, my,” she said. ”Oh, la-la-la. Haven't you really? Well, you must go, the very first minute you can. You'll adore it. I can tell just by looking at you you'll be crazy over it.”

”Were you abroad long?” he said.

”I was in Paris over three weeks,” she said.

”That's one place I'd like to go,” he said. ”I guess that must be tops.”

”Oh, don't talk about it,” she said. ”It makes me so homesick I can't see straight. Oh, Paree, Paree, ma chere Paree. I just feel as though it's my city. Honestly, I don't know how I'm ever going to get along away from it. I'd like to go right straight back this minute.”

”Hey, don't talk like that, will you?” he said. ”We need you around here. At least, don't go back yet a while, will you please? I've only just met you.”

”Oh, that's sweet of you,” she said. ”Goodness, so few American men know how to talk to a woman. I guess they're all too busy, or something. Everybody seems in such a hurry-no time for anything but money, money, money. Well, c'est ca, I suppose.”

”We could find time for other things,” he said. ”There's a lot of fun we could have. There's a lot of fun around New York, at least.”

”This old New York!” she said. ”I don't believe I'll ever get used to it. There's nothing to do here. Now in Paris, it's so picturesque and everything, you're never blue a second. And there are all these cute little places where you can go and have a drink, when you want. Oh, it's wonderful.”

”I know any amount of cute little places where you can go and have a drink,” he said. ”I can take you to any one of them in ten minutes.”

”It wouldn't be like Paris,” she said. ”Oh, every time I think of it, I get terriblement triste. Darn it, there I go again. Will I ever remember?”

”Look,” he said, ”can't I get you a drink now? Why, you haven't been doing a thing. What would you like?”

”Oh, mon dieu, I don't know,” she said. ”I've got so in the habit of drinking champagne that really-What have they got? What do people drink here, anyway?”

”Well, there's Scotch and gin,” he said, ”and I think maybe there's some rye out in the dining-room. At least there may be.”

”How funny!” she said. ”You forget about the terrible things that people drink. Well, when in Rome-Gin, I guess.”

”With ginger ale?” he said.

”Quel horreur!” she said. ”No, just plain, I think, just-what do you call it?-straight.”

”I'll be right back,” he said, ”and it'll be too long.”

He left her and quickly returned, bearing little full gla.s.ses. Carefully he presented one to her.

”Merci mille fois,” she said. ”Oh, darn me. Thank you, I mean.”

The young man sat down again beside her. He drank, but he did not look at the gla.s.s in his hand. He looked at the young woman.

”J'ai soif,” she said. ”Mon dieu. I hope you don't think I swear terribly. I've got so in the way of doing it, I really don't realize what I'm saying. And in French, you know, they don't think anything of it at all. Everybody says it. It isn't even like swearing. Ugh. My goodness, this is strong.”

”It's all right, though,” he said. ”Marge has a good man.”

”Marge?” she said. ”A good man?”

”At least,” he said, ”the stuff isn't cut.”

”Stuff?” she said. ”Isn't cut?”

”She's got a good bootlegger, at least,” he said. ”I wouldn't be much surprised if he really did get it off the boat.”

”Oh, please don't talk about boats!” she said. ”It makes me so homesick, I just nearly die. It makes me want to get right on a boat now.”

”Ah, don't,” he said. ”Give me just a little chance. Lord, when I think I nearly pa.s.sed up this party. Honestly, I wasn't going to come at first. And then the minute I saw you, I knew I'd never been so right in my life. At least, when I saw you sitting there and that dress and everything-well, I went for a loop, that's all.”

”What, this old thing?” she said. ”Why, it's old as the hills. I got it before I went abroad. I sort of didn't want to wear any of my French things tonight because-well, of course no one thinks anything of them over there, but I thought maybe these New York people might think they were pretty extreme. You know how Paris clothes are. They're so Frenchy.”

”Would I like to see you in them,” he said. ”Boy! Why, I'd-Hey, there isn't anything in your gla.s.s. Here, let me fix that up for you. And don't move, will you?”

Again he went and came back, and again he bore gla.s.ses filled with colorless fluid. He resumed looking at the young woman.

”Well,” she said. ”a votre sante. Heavens, I wish I could stop that. I mean good luck.”

”I've got it,” he said, ”ever since I met you. I wish-at least I wish we could get off somewhere away from here. Marge says they're going to roll back the rugs and dance, and everybody'll be wanting to dance with you, and I won't have a prayer.”

”Oh, I don't want to dance,” she said. ”American men dance so badly, most of them. And I don't want to meet a lot of people, anyway. It's awfully hard for me to talk to them. I can't seem to understand what they're talking about, since I've been back. I suppose they think their slang is funny, but I don't see it.”

”You know what we might do,” he said, ”if you would, at least? We might wait till they start dancing, and then just ease out. We might do the town for a while. What would you say, at least?”

”You know, that might be rather amusing,” she said. ”I'd really like to see some of your new little bistros-what do you call them?-oh, you know what I mean-speakeasies. I hear some of them are really quite interesting. I suppose this stuff is strong, but it doesn't seem to do anything at all to me. It must be because I haven't been used to anything but those wonderful French wines.”

”Can I get you some more?” he said.