Page 253 - tender-is-the-night

XIII

With his cap, Dick slapped the snow from his dark blue
ski-suit before going inside. The great hall, its floor pock-
marked by two decades of hobnails, was cleared for the
tea dance, and four-score young Americans, domiciled in
schools near Gstaad, bounced about to the frolic of ‘Don’t
Bring Lulu,’ or exploded violently with the first percussions
of the Charleston. It was a colony of the young, simple, and
expensive—the Sturmtruppen of the rich were at St. Moritz.
Baby Warren felt that she had made a gesture of renuncia-
tion in joining the Divers here.
Dick picked out the two sisters easily across the deli-
cately haunted, soft-swaying room—they were poster-like,
formidable in their snow costumes, Nicole’s of cerulean
blue, Baby’s of brick red. The young Englishman was talk-
ing to them; but they were paying no attention, lulled to the
staring point by the adolescent dance.
Nicole’s snow-warm face lighted up further as she saw
Dick. ‘Where is he?’
‘He missed the train—I’m meeting him later.’ Dick sat
down, swinging a heavy boot over his knee. ‘You two look
very striking together. Every once in a while I forget we’re in
the same party and get a big shock at seeing you.’
Baby was a tall, fine-looking woman, deeply engaged in
being almost thirty. Symptomatically she had pulled two

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