a year's rent to that manipulator Ned Corrigan without some wear and tear on his goddammed apartment.
"You know perfectly well it will be a godsend to me," she said.
He squirmed at the fervor of her acceptance. "Actually I have as usual an ulterior motive. The library is exactly as you left it when you were called to Congress and will require your attention for at least the winter. Your previous cataloging was too incomplete. I want the cards to contain more detailed information, dates, description of binding. And when I return from Palm Beach I want to dictate my autobiography. The house will be closed but Denis will have his apartment above the stable. I still call it that, though I suppose I should say library. He will keep his eyes on things and get anything you need."
She looked down at her souffle so that he would not see her distress at being caught again in the lonely library, despite all its fascinating works, but even if she had had another job in prospect she could not refuse him and his kindness. "Lucy says you're a softy," she said, "and I think she's right."
"Not at all. It's that I cannot bear to have my things mauled by strangers," he said with sudden coldness, rising. "If you don't mind, it's past my bedtime. Oh, and if you do actually see Lucy tell her I am most annoyed with her."
The scurrying of "Y" inmates up and down the squeaky hall boards awakened Vida at seven, too early to phone Lucy. She dressed and by eight thirty was in Hal's apartment on the third floor of a remodeled brownstone block of which the street and first floor were shops.
She recognized the white Moroccan rug with the brown zigzag pattern, the olive velvet studio couch and two brown upholstered chairs from Figente's, but not the long painted Venetian table against the sage walls, or the lamps and smaller tables and chairs. The long table would make a desk, she thought, looking approvingly at the black marble mantelpiece which was a real fireplace, and saw in the reflection of its ceiling-high mirror the Chinese red walls of the bedroom. That room had been all new. Striped zebras roamed about the black drapes, bedcover and upholstery, and obviously were Hal's art moderne taste. The sun pouring in made the bedroom seem less sybaritic.
"A well-kept apartment for a well-kept boy," she said to herself out loud because it seemed strange to move into Hal's apartment.
At nine thirty she phoned Lucy.
