Page 326 - tender-is-the-night

minutes in front of a store and an officer started walking up
and down in front of her, tipping his hat.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Collis after a moment. ‘I’d rather be
here than up in Paris with somebody picking your pocket
every minute.’
He had been enjoying himself, and he held out against
anything that threatened to dull his pleasure.
‘I don’t know,’ he persisted. ‘I don’t mind it here.’
Dick evoked the picture that the few days had imprinted
on his mind, and stared at it. The walk toward the American
Express past the odorous confectioneries of the Via Nation-
ale, through the foul tunnel up to the Spanish Steps, where
his spirit soared before the flower stalls and the house where
Keats had died. He cared only about people; he was scarcely
conscious of places except for their weather, until they had
been invested with color by tangible events. Rome was the
end of his dream of Rosemary.
A bell-boy came in and gave him a note.
‘I did not go to the party,’ it said. ‘I am in my room. We
leave for Livorno early in the morning.’
Dick handed the note and a tip to the boy.
‘Tell Miss Hoyt you couldn’t find me.’ Turning to Collis
he suggested the Bonbonieri.
They inspected the tart at the bar, granting her the mini-
mum of interest exacted by her profession, and she stared
back with bright boldness; they went through the desert-
ed lobby oppressed by draperies holding Victorian dust in
stuffy folds, and they nodded at the night concierge who re-
turned the gesture with the bitter servility peculiar to night

326 Tender is the Night