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closely packed tables and greeted the Divers cavalierly. Such
salutations always astonished Dick—acquaintances saying
‘Hi!’ to them, or speaking only to one of them. He felt so in-
tensely about people that in moments of apathy he preferred
to remain concealed; that one could parade a casualness into
his presence was a challenge to the key on which he lived.
Collis, unaware that he was without a wedding garment,
heralded his arrival with: ‘I reckon I’m late—the beyed has
flown.’ Dick had to wrench something out of himself before
he could forgive him for not having first complimented Ni-
cole.
She left almost immediately and he sat with Collis, fin-
ishing the last of his wine. He rather liked Collis—he was
‘post-war”; less difficult than most of the Southerners he
had known at New Haven a decade previously. Dick listened
with amusement to the conversation that accompanied the
slow, profound stuffing of a pipe. In the early afternoon
children and nurses were trekking into the Luxembourg
Gardens; it was the first time in months that Dick had let
this part of the day out of his hands.
Suddenly his blood ran cold as he realized the content of
Collis’s confidential monologue.
‘—she’s not so cold as you’d probably think. I admit I
thought she was cold for a long time. But she got into a jam
with a friend of mine going from New York to Chicago at
Easter—a boy named Hillis she thought was pretty nutsey at
New Haven—she had a compartment with a cousin of mine
but she and Hillis wanted to be alone, so in the afternoon
my cousin came and played cards in our compartment.

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