Page 281 - tender-is-the-night

begged, ‘Help me, help me, Dick!’
A wave of agony went over him. It was awful that such a
fine tower should not be erected, only suspended, suspend-
ed from him. Up to a point that was right: men were for
that, beam and idea, girder and logarithm; but somehow
Dick and Nicole had become one and equal, not opposite
and complementary; she was Dick too, the drought in the
marrow of his bones. He could not watch her disintegra-
tions without participating in them. His intuition rilled
out of him as tenderness and compassion—he could only
take the characteristically modern course, to interpose—he
would get a nurse from Zurich, to take her over to-night.
‘You CAN help me.’
Her sweet bullying pulled him forward off his feet.
‘You’ve helped me before—you can help me now.’
‘I can only help you the same old way.’
‘Some one can help me.’
‘Maybe so. You can help yourself most. Let’s find the
children.’
There were numerous lottery booths with white
wheels—Dick was startled when he inquired at the first
and encountered blank disavowals. Evil-eyed, Nicole stood
apart, denying the children, resenting them as part of a
downright world she sought to make amorphous. Presently
Dick found them, surrounded by women who were exam-
ining them with delight like fine goods, and by peasant
children staring.
‘Merci, Monsieur, ah Monsieur est trop généreux. C’était
un plaisir, M’sieur, Madame. Au revoir, mes petits.’

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