Page 327 - tender-is-the-night

servants. Then in a taxi they rode along cheerless streets
through a dank November night. There were no women in
the streets, only pale men with dark coats buttoned to the
neck, who stood in groups beside shoulders of cold stone.
‘My God!’ Dick sighed.
‘What’s a matter?’
‘I was thinking of that man this afternoon: ‘This table is
reserved for the Princess Orsini.’ Do you know what these
old Roman families are? They’re bandits, they’re the ones
who got possession of the temples and palaces after Rome
went to pieces and preyed on the people.’
‘I like Rome,’ insisted Collis. ‘Why won’t you try the rac-
es?’
‘I don’t like races.’
‘But all the women turn out—‘
‘I know I wouldn’t like anything here. I like France,
where everybody thinks he’s Napoleon—down here every-
body thinks he’s Christ.’
At the Bonbonieri they descended to a panelled cabaret,
hopelessly impermanent amid the cold stone. A listless band
played a tango and a dozen couples covered the wide floor
with those elaborate and dainty steps so offensive to the
American eye. A surplus of waiters precluded the stir and
bustle that even a few busy men can create; over the scene as
its form of animation brooded an air of waiting for some-
thing, for the dance, the night, the balance of forces which
kept it stable, to cease. It assured the impressionable guest
that whatever he was seeking he would not find it here.
This was plain as plain to Dick. He looked around, hop-

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