Page 355 - tender-is-the-night

three nights he had remained with the scabbed anonymous
woman-artist he had come to love, formally to portion out
the adrenaline, but really to throw as much wan light as he
could into the darkness ahead.
Half appreciating his feeling, Franz travelled quickly
over an opinion:
‘It was neuro-syphilis. All the Wassermans we took won’t
tell me differently. The spinal fluid—‘
‘Never mind,’ said Dick. ‘Oh, God, never mind! If she
cared enough about her secret to take it away with her, let
it go at that.’
‘You better lay off for a day.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m going to.’
Franz had his wedge; looking up from the telegram that
he was writing to the woman’s brother he inquired: ‘Or do
you want to take a little trip?’
‘Not now.’
‘I don’t mean a vacation. There’s a case in Lausanne. I’ve
been on the phone with a Chilian all morning—‘
‘She was so damn brave,’ said Dick. ‘And it took her so
long.’ Franz shook his head sympathetically and Dick got
himself together. ‘Excuse me for interrupting you.’
‘This is just a change—the situation is a father’s problem
with his son—the father can’t get the son up here. He wants
somebody to come down there.’
‘What is it? Alcoholism? Homosexuality? When you say
Lausanne—‘
‘A little of everything.’
‘I’ll go down. Is there any money in it?’

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