At last, Carol selected a table and held a chair for Deane. She wanted a glass of sherry, but tried to enjoy the drink he ordered. It was a fragile looking concoction of pale pink, with a lace of foam.
“At home, we call it a ‘raspberry kiss,’” said Carol proudly.
Deane knew that he thought he was living. He sipped on, and sang on, hesitating briefly to glance at every man who walked into the bar. One or two of them looked at him in amused recognition, but most of them were absorbed in other matters and passed him, unnoticing. As the alcohol sifted through his mind, his sentences became more vapid, more pretentious, and louder. He began to simper—call attention to unimportant things. There was an angry moment with the waiter, who accepted his ridiculous complaints with thinly veiled contempt. It was difficult to embarrass Deane—the outside of Deane. But she refused a second drink, suggesting food instead, and together they went upstairs to the dining room.
The head waiter courteously guided them to a corner table. No one was close to them and Deane relaxed. Carol sighed, lit a cigarette and ordered the luncheon. Suddenly he leaned toward Deane.
“We have been friends too long, dear,” he said, “for me to mince words. You don’t mind my speaking?”
“Of course not,” said Deane. “I don’t mind at all.”
“I have heard rumors,” said Carol, shaking his head over his plate. “They have bothered me and I feel that you ought to know.”
Deane looked amused.
“Rumors?” she repeated. “Honestly?”
“This,” said Carol sternly, “is not a frivolous joke. It has no frivolity.” He looked less stern now. Frivolity. He liked that word. He leaned back in his chair and tried, ineffectually, to blow a smoke ring. “This,” he continued, “concerns your happiness. It will probably hurt you. But I know you will face it. I must forget myself in this issue.”