He was happy. So happy that he could not go quietly to bed. Nor could he walk alone in the empty streets. His nerves wanted the relaxation of companionship. The perfect day wanted a touch of contrast to finish its perfection. He needed to frame the memory of Jean's cool lips, possess it alone in another setting.
A few moments later he crossed the studio amid the shrieks and catcalls of The Bunch, straight to the couch where The Kitten was curled alone.
"So you thought you'd come and see whether we were alive. It's awfully good of you! But you know we're hard to kill. Skin's so thick the little stings and arrows don't get through, somehow."
The Kitten drawled between puffs of her cigarette and did not move to make room for Herrick.
He lifted her, deposited her farther back among the cushions and tried to take her hand. She was so furious and making such a ridiculous pretense, just as she used to, that Herrick's feel of youth and well-being increased. It was as if the memory of these old tricks, now powerless to hurt, gave him back three years of time. At thirty-three, Herrick wanted the past.
"But claws do, Kittycat."
"If we'd known you were going to honor us," persisted The Kitten, "we'd have ordered champagne. As it is, we only had the same old ink, and that's gone."
"A cigarette, a jug of ink and thou!"
"You—you——" Then, fearing she was going to cry, she stopped.
Across the room a tall girl with flat, red hair and small red-rimmed eyes like glowing embers in the white ash of her face, broke off a sentence in the middle.