“Only as an actress. Then not too much. Now it’s only two minutes more. It’s nice country now and I like it. Can we have lunch in bed?”
“Can we go to sleep then, too?”
“Yes. It’s not a sin, if we don’t miss the plane.”
The car climbed steeply now on the old stone-paved road with the big trees on either side.
“Have you anything to miss?”
“You,” he said.
“I mean duty.”
“Did I look as though I were on duty?”
“You might be. You’re a wonderful actor. The worst I ever saw. I love you, my dear crazy,” she said. “I’ve seen you play all your great roles. The one I loved you the best in was when you were playing the Faithful Husband and you were doing it so wonderfully and there was a big spot of natural juices showed on your trousers and every time you looked at me it was bigger. That was in the Ritz, I think.”
“That was where I played the Faithful Husband best,” he said. “Like Garrick at the Old Bailey.”
“You’re a little confused,” she said. “I think you played it best on the Normandie.”
“When they burned her I didn’t give a damn about anything for six days.”
“That’s not your record.”
“No,” he said.
They were stopped at the gate now and the chauffeur was unlocking it.
“Do we really live here?”
“Yes. Up the hill. I’m sorry the drive’s in such bad shape.”
The car climbed it through the mango trees and the unflowering flamboyanes, turned past the cattle sheds and on up the circular drive to the house. He opened the door of the car and she stepped out as though conferring a warm and generous favor to the ground.
She looked at the house and could see the open windows of the bedroom. They were big windows and in some way it reminded her of the Normandie.
“I’ll miss the plane,” she said. “Why can’t I be ill? All the other women are ill.”
“I know two good doctors that will swear you are.”
“Wonderful,” she said, going up the stairs. “We won’t have to ask them to dinner, will we?”
“No,” he said, opening the door, “I’ll call them up and send the chauffeur for the certificates.”
“I am ill,” she said. “I’ve decided. Let the troops entertain themselves for once.”
“You’ll go.”
“No. I’m going to entertain you. Have you been entertained properly lately?”
“No.”
“Me either, or is it neither?”
“I don’t know,” he said and held her close and looked in her eyes and then away. He opened the door to the big bedroom. “It’s neither,” he said reflectively.
The windows were open and the wind was in the room. But it was pleasant now with the sun.
“It is like the Normandie. Did you make it like the Normandie for me?”
“Of course, darling,” he lied. “What did you think?”
“You’re a worse liar than I am.”
“I’m not even faster.”
“Let’s not lie. Let’s pretend you made it for me.”
“I made it for you,” he said. “Only it looked like someone else.”
“Is that as hard as you can hold anyone?”
“Without breaking them.” Then he said, “Without lying down.”
“Who is against lying down?”
“Not me,” he said and picked her up and carried her to the bed.
“Let me drop the jalousie. I don’t mind your entertaining the troops. But we have a radio that entertains the kitchen. They don’t need us.”
“Now,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Now remember everything I ever taught you.”
“Aren’t I?”
“Now and then.”
“Then,” he said. “Where did we know him?”
“We met him. Don’t you remember?”
“Look, let’s not remember anything and let’s not talk and let’s not talk and let’s not talk.”
Afterwards she said, “People used to get hungry even on the Normandie.”
“I’ll ring for the steward.”
“But this steward doesn’t know us.”
“He will.”
“No. Let’s go out and see the house. What have you painted?”
“What all nothing.”
“Don’t you have time?”
“What do you think?”
“But couldn’t you when you’re ashore?”
“What do you mean ashore?”
“Tom,” she said. They were in the living room now in the big old chairs and she had taken her shoes off to feel the matting on the floor. She sat curled in the chair and she had brushed her hair to please him, and because of what she knew it did to him, and she sat so it swung like a heavy silken load when her head moved.