“Those people are O.K., I guess,” said Caroline. She started to say something about her own family, some improbable but soothing lie, something to prove to herself that she was the same as Mrs Stevanson whose picture was so often in the papers. But she said nothing. She played with the ribbon of her typewriter.
“I hate staying in one place,” said Caroline, after a moment of silence.
“It’s no fun traveling,” said Robert Holton. “Moving around all the time; that’s what I didn’t like in the army. No, traveling’s pretty lousy.”
“That kind is, but I mean to go ... well, you know ... where you want to go, that’s what I mean. I don’t like sitting around here day after day. I want to go some place.”
He shrugged. “A lot of people do, I guess. Marjorie, you know, the waitress, she wants to go to Sicily.”
“Well, that’s different. I mean she’s not ... well, you know what I mean, she’s probably happy doing what she’s doing.”
“I don’t see why,” said Robert Holton. They thought of Marjorie Ventusa for a moment then they didn’t think of her again.
Robert Holton shifted his position on the railing. Caroline looked about the familiar room. The older women were typing and using their adding machines; the younger women were watching Robert Holton; and the younger men (there were three of them) looked up occasionally to see what Caroline was doing. She posed a little for them. She didn’t pose haughtily, though. Caroline was too clever for that. She just looked girlish and rather innocent. None of them could understand her sadness and her longing. It pleased her to think how well she hid herself. Not even Robert Holton, talking to her now, could realize these things.
“No,” said Robert Holton, “no, I want to stay in one place.”
“You don’t want to be doing the same thing all the time, do you?”