“I am so sorry,” she said and blushed. “I am so excited and I always say the wrong things. What should I say? Have you had a good time here all afternoon?”
“Yes,” said Andrea. “With my old friend and severest critic.”
“Who is that?”
“Scotch whisky and water.”
“I suppose if he must tease me he must,” she said to the Colonel. “But you won’t tease me, will you?”
“Take him over to that corner table and talk to him. I’m tired of you both.”
“I’m not tired of you,” the Colonel told him. “But I think it is a good idea. Should we have a drink sitting down, Renata?”
“I’d love to if Andrea isn’t angry.”
“I’m never angry.”
“Would you have a drink with us, Andrea?”
“No,” said Andrea. “Get along to your table. I’m sick of seeing it unoccupied.”
“Good-bye, Caro. Thanks for the drink we didn’t have.”
“Ciao, Ricardo,” Andrea said and that was all.
He turned his fine, long, tall back on them and looked into the mirror that is placed behind bars so a man can tell when he is drinking too much, and decided that he did not like what he saw there. “Ettore,” he said. “Please put this nonsense on my bill.”
He walked out after waiting carefully for his coat, swinging into it, and tipping the man who brought it exactly what he should be tipped plus twenty per cent.
At the corner table, Renata said, “Do you think we hurt his feelings?”
“No. He loves you and he likes me.”
“Andrea is so nice. And you’re so nice.”
“Waiter,” the Colonel called; then asked, “Do you want a dry Martini, too?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’d love one.”
“Two very dry Martinis,” the Colonel said. “Montgomerys. Fifteen to one.”
The waiter, who had been in the desert, smiled and was gone, and the Colonel turned to Renata.
“You’re nice,” he said. “You’re also very beautiful and lovely and I love you.”
“You always say that and I don’t know what it means but I like to hear it.”
“How old are you now?”
“Nearly nineteen. Why?”
“And you don’t know what it means?”
“No. Why should I? Americans always say it to you before they go away. It seems to be necessary to them. But I love you very much, too, whatever that is.”
“Let’s have a fine time,” the Colonel said. “Let’s not think about anything at all.”
“I would like that. I cannot think very well this time of day at any rate.”
“Here are the drinks,” the Colonel said. “Remember not to say, chin-chin.”
“I remember that from before. I never say chin-chin, nor here’s to you, nor bottom’s up.”
“We just raise the glass to each other and, if you wish, we can touch the edges.”
“I wish,” she said.
The Martinis were icy cold and true Montgomerys, and, after touching the edges, they felt them glow happily all through their upper bodies.
“And what have you been doing?” the Colonel asked.
“Nothing. I still wait to go away to school.”
“Where now?”
“God knows. Wherever I go to learn English.”
“Turn your head and raise your chin once for me.”
“You’re not making fun?”
“No. I’m not making fun.”
She turned her head and raised her chin, without vanity, nor coquetry, and the Colonel felt his heart turn over inside him, as though some sleeping animal had rolled over in its burrow and frightened, deliciously, the other animal sleeping close beside.
“Oh you,” he said. “Would you ever like to run for Queen of Heaven?”
“That would be sacrilegious.”
“Yes,” he said. “I suppose it would and I withdraw the suggestion.”
“Richard,” she said. “No I can’t say it.”
“Say it.”
“No.”
The Colonel thought, I order you to say it. And she said, “Please never look at me like that.”
“I’m sorry,” the Colonel said. “I had just slipped into my trade unconsciously.”
“And if we were such a thing as married would you practice your trade in the home?”
“No. I swear it. I never have. Not in my heart.”
“With no one?”
“With no one of your sex.”
“I don’t like that word your sex. It sounds as though you were practicing your trade.”