For a long time he wondered. But he could not remember, and he went to sleep finally, exhausted, and in his mind was hidden the dream of the night before, the secret dream, the dream of death, of living. He had almost remembered.
Chapter Fourteen
The next day was cold, colder than the early morning had been.
Robert Holton took a bath, dressed, and went down in the elevator. He said good morning to the man at the desk who gave him a letter from his father. Then he went outside; shivering, he walked to the subway station. Without buying a paper he went down into the ground and at Wall Street he came to the surface again.
Marjorie Ventusa was glad to see him. The movie she had seen the night before had been a successful tragedy and she had wept and had been able to think about herself less tragically afterward.
She watched him as he came into the restaurant. He went to his usual table and sat down. After he was seated she picked up a tray and walked over to him.
“Good morning, Mr Holton,” she said, and smiled.
“Hello, Marjorie. How’s everything going?”
“Fine, just fine. Weather’s getting cold, though.” She noticed that he had dark circles under his eyes. She tried not to think of what he might have been doing with the dark-haired girl.