"On 7th Avenue?"
"The Museum—not the Opera."
"Oh yes. Vida told me. You two have a lot in common."
"I like her."
"Well, for heaven's sake, so do I!" She felt irritable. Always talking about Vida. I hate people who don't come right out and say what they are thinking, she thought unhappily. A vexed taxi tooted agreement.
The Castiglioni was a dark alley. Then a flurry of light and movement signifying the Ritz. She gave him her hand stiffly. "Thank you for a lovely day. I suppose I won't see you again."
"When do you leave exactly?"
He wants to be rid of me, she thought close to tears. "The boat train leaves at noon the day after the day after tomorrow."
"I'm glad you found me, I'll come and say goodbye."
"Don't bother about me please. I wouldn't want you to go out of your way."
He leaned toward her, and they kissed quickly with guarded closed lips and parted.
"Monsieur Beman has been trying to reach Mademoiselle," the concierge said as he handed her the key.
She threw off her clothes helterskelter in rage.
It's absolutely the last time! Never again! He makes me sick! Vida too!
She pulled off her stocking and the scab on her bleeding toe came with it. That made her cry.
"Nobody loves me!" She wept aloud.
Silken folds of drawn curtains, the broad open bed, and, worst of all, the gilt clock on the mantelpiece recalling Simone's apartment in New York mocked her. I'll bet he went right to Simone or maybe someone else. She bathed, determined to wash herself back to normal. What was that white basin? Oh yes, Figente had one in his bathroom, a bidet! I never want to see a man again. Let the phone ring! Better answer—it might be—
"Where've you been, I've been trying to reach you all day?" Beman asked. "I'm at the Chantilly with Lady Sickham and Max Kleger."
Max Kleger was Europe's biggest producer but who cared.
