Viola went on.
She opened another door. Hattie was standing at the window in a green dress—her once-sleek orange hair dyed black, now, and fluffed out—her ankles no longer slim—and when she turned I hid, as all of us do, my inner response to the etching of the interval—that very Time which I so recently had seen to be without importance. She was now about fifty-five.
"Phil," she said, "this is nice! You don't seem a day older—just wiser. But look at me!"
"Brunette."
"A harridan. The warmest heart in the world—and what happens? The opposite of Dorian Grey. I blame it on the high morals and low conduct of the cops. Hard years. I loved Fiorello—and he despised every bone in my body. I was even over in Jersey for a while. It was the lowest period in my life. Sit down over there in the red chair. Viola, bring us coffee. You know—I've often thought about you—when I read your books—or when one of the girls did—or when I read something of yours in a magazine. You aren't around here much, any more, though, are you?"
I shook my head. "Miami Beach. And now—we're building a house in Miami."
"Florida. I went down last winter. Had a cold I simply couldn't shake. Stayed at the Steinberg-Riviera. Hell of a place, Miami Beach! Wonderful weather, period. Everybody on the make. Shake a palm and out drops a chippy. A madam with ethics would starve there—and the news about good taste hasn't got south of the Mason and Dixon Line."
"I always think of it as the end of the American dream."
"It's the end, anyhow. Phil. Do you really want to see me? Because if you're being polite for old time's sake—maybe you'd rather put off the sentimental chitchat till later."