“No; I told you before that they amused me. She is fun, and poor Gay is a dear.”
“Are you going to have them round all the time? That woman’s laugh gets on my nerves, and I want him shot at sunrise. They can’t talk about anything but the movies and jazz dancing and clothes.”
“What do you want them to talk about? Don’t pace up and down like a wild beast.” Beatrice came up and stood before him to prevent his turning the corner.
He looked down at her without answering. She was clad in shimmering white loveliness cut along the same medieval lines as the gown another Beatrice had worn when Dante first saw her walking by the Arno; her hair was very sunshiny and fragrant and her dove-coloured eyes most appealing.
He burst out laughing at his own protest. “Am I a bear? Come and kiss me. If you like them or they amuse you just tote ’em about, darling. Only 121 can’t you manage to do it while I am out of town? They do fleck me on the raw.”
“Hermit––beast,” she dimpled and shook her finger at him.
“I just want you,” he said, simply; “or else people who can do something besides spend money or sponge round for it.”
“Sometimes you frighten me––you sound booky.”
“I’m not; I want real things, Bea. I feel hungry for plain people.”
“You have them all day long in your office and your shops; I should think when you come home you’d welcome a good time.”