“No, really. Someone like her did, though. . . . The type says, in its
startling language, the extremity of its make-up, oh, the way it waves
its legs about, ‘I am accessible, I am accessible, and I’m very good
fun, indeed.’ They are good fun, too. They give a man the comfortable
feeling of sitting about with no collar on. I’m sure Judith will be
easier for your Peter, than either you or Hilda were. He’s good-looking
isn’t he? And the newspaper crowd will amuse her. . . . Patricia my
child, she can probably keep him ages, until he gets another attack of
grail-seeking, idealism. She may cure him of any further recurrence of
that, even. Women of her sort do.”
“Lucia, you are the complete Cassandra, this afternoon.”
“Let’s have a drink—there won’t be any at the Stevens’—they have the
most amazing Russians who suddenly burst into song, though. Worthwhile,
usually. Will you mix it?”
“It will have to be a Bronx. There’s nothing but gin and oranges. . . .
“It tastes good. Lucia, do you think I should write Pete and ask him if
he still wants a divorce?”
“Why _write_ him? That’s just obvious indiscretion. . . . Why not
telephone him?”
“He’d be at the club, now, probably.”
Lucia said absolutely nothing. I went to the telephone, at the foot of
the little staircase connecting Lucia’s place and mine. On the pad
alongside the telephone, were scrawled all our engagements for the week.
Lucia had made them all, so far.
“Listen Pat. Plan what you’re going to say, before you call.”
“That’s simple.”
“Murray Hill 0003.”
I gave Peter’s name. Lucia brought me a second cocktail and sat down on
the step above me.