“Maudy! where’s Julie?”
She laughed. “Oh, she’s in very good company.” She nestled up to him. “Don’t think of her, only ourselves. Let’s make believe we’re not married.”
The taxis were speeding downtown. Julie took off her mask, leaned back; she was excited, warm from dancing. Her companion bent over her. She looked into flaming eyes.
“Julie!”
That hour in Martin’s arms, she forgot her husband, her child, herself; promised him everything. This time, he swore, she should keep her word.
11
Floyd had an insane desire to smash things. He threw a bottle of wine into the glass and china on the table, overturning the electric candles; the fuse burnt out, putting the room in darkness. He laughed hysterically. He was on a ship, in a terrible storm, the ground was slipping away, billows were rising on all sides.
“Hey there, steward, damn it, where’s my cabin?”
The haughty Swede lifted him like a child, carried him into the elevator which took them up to the servants’ quarters, unlocked a small door at the extreme end of the hall; it was an unused room, with one lamp hanging from the ceiling. He put Floyd on the sofa, lit the lamp, and carefully shut the door—he didn’t want the “master’s” ravings to be heard. The caterer’s men were still in the house. Some might inform; a raid would lose him his place.
When Floyd awoke, the lamp sputtered in fitful gleams. His head was like lead, his tongue parched; there was a sense of deep humiliation, waves of shame, higher than the ocean. He looked about the room. It was in disorder—boxes piled up in a corner, a large desk strewn with papers; at the door stood the Swede.