"Don't be an ass."
"Can't do it."
"Right. Send him a tender message?"
"Anything. Absolutely."
"Good night, darling."
"Don't be sentimental."
"You make me ill."
We kissed good night and Brett shivered. "I'd better go," she said. "Good night, darling."
"You don't have to go."
"Yes."
We kissed again on the stairs and as I called for the cordon the concierge muttered something behind her door. I went back upstairs and from the open window watched Brett walking up the street to the big limousine drawn up to the curb under the arc-light. She got in and it started off. I turned around. On the table was an empty glass and a glass half-full of brandy and soda. I took them both out to the kitchen and poured the half-full glass down the sink. I turned off the gas in the dining-room, kicked off my slippers sitting on the bed, and got into bed. This was Brett, that I had felt like crying about. Then I thought of her walking up the street and stepping into the car, as I had last seen her, and of course in a little while I felt like hell again. It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night it is another thing.
