Page 367 - tender-is-the-night

‘In fact he got up and went away.’
Wanting a drink, for the chase had occupied the dinner
hour, he led her, puzzled, toward the grill, and continued as
they occupied two leather easy-chairs and ordered a high-
ball and a glass of beer: ‘The man who was taking care of
him made a wrong prognosis or something—wait a minute,
I’ve hardly had time to think the thing out myself.’
‘He’s GONE?’
‘He got the evening train for Paris.’
They sat silent. From Nicole flowed a vast tragic apathy.
‘It was instinct,’ Dick said, finally. ‘He was really dying,
but he tried to get a resumption of rhythm—he’s not the
first person that ever walked off his death-bed—like an old
clock—you know, you shake it and somehow from sheer
habit it gets going again. Now your father—‘
‘Oh, don’t tell me,’ she said.
‘His principal fuel was fear,’ he continued. ‘He got afraid,
and off he went. He’ll probably live till ninety—‘
‘Please don’t tell me any more,’ she said. ‘Please don’t—I
couldn’t stand any more.’
‘All right. The little devil I came down to see is hopeless.
We may as well go back to-morrow.’
‘I don’t see why you have to—come in contact with all
this,’ she burst forth.
‘Oh, don’t you? Sometimes I don’t either.’
She put her hand on his.
‘Oh, I’m sorry I said that, Dick.’
Some one had brought a phonograph into the bar and
they sat listening to The Wedding of the Painted Doll.

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