She regained control. "Good night, Oliver." It was a dismissal.
"Good night," he said obediently and bent his head. The mistress word wasn't there any more. He felt terrible—honest, but terrible. He tried to fix the image of her walking away down the sidewalk. He had an urge to run after her, to sink to his knees with his arms around her hips, to make her happy, but a dumb veto held him in his chair. It wasn't right, or it wouldn't have remained right. He stayed seated and finished his dinner. Claudine was tactfully silent.
He paid and climbed the stairs to George's table. "The lady's gone.
I've taken the high road," he said gloomily.
"My God, Olive Oil, she was . . ." George's eyes expanded. "I mean, bazumas!"
"Yes," Oliver said. "Bazumas."
"That dress! That color!"
"How about a little Courvoisier, George?"
An hour later, he lurched home and put on La Traviata. George had diverted him with a long story about how his father had made his whole family jump through hoops during his last years and then had snuck off to Atlantic City and spent most of his money before he collapsed. "The old goat," George said, annoyed all over again, partially approving.
Sad glorious voices filled the apartment. Oliver began to hate himself. What the hell good was he to anybody? The walnut box caught his eye, shining and complete. It angered him, refuted his mood. He put it on the floor. "Fuck it," he said and lifted his right foot high over the box. Verdi let out a loud warning meow. "What?" Oliver demanded of the cat. "What's the matter with you?" The cat took two steps forward and let out another long low sound of protest.
"Huh?" Oliver bent over and put the box back on the table. "All right, all right." He opened it. The bronze valentine stared up at him. "Shit," he said. Verdi rubbed against his ankle. "Fucking box," Oliver said with a certain amount of pride. He scratched Verdi between the ears. There was nothing to do but go to bed.