Hattie is a thoughtful dame.
I was about to laugh at her when an abrupt inquiry held me for a second or two. I was surprised—a little. But the question postponed itself. "I came up—solely and utterly to call on you, Hattie."
She shrugged one shoulder. She yawned. "Maybe we can return your calls. We used to. But—really—I'm delighted. Except when you were—overburdened—you were always fun to have around. It's a dull life—just being chaperon to a lot of whores. And it seems to me the boys aren't interested in philosophy any more. They used to spend more time chinning than cheating, around here. Back in the old days of humanism and liberalism and Coué and the market boom, when the world was full of fun. Why—I had to scout local campuses for girls who could keep in the debates! Now—the boys just come in tight and preoccupied—ask for a girl by hair color, like picking out paint for a kitchen—pay—and scram. I can't recall how long it's been since we held one of those impromptu breakfasts—for the celebrities and plain people who happened to be around! It's depressing!"
I knew what she meant. Everybody knows.
Viola brought the coffee.
"Pretty," I said.
Hattie looked at the door where Viola had gone. "Nice girl. Married and has two kids. The wages are no damned good—but the tips!—I think she does as well as I do, after taxes. More passes made at Vi than nearly anybody actually working. She's a strict Baptist."
"I wasn't—" I thought of reminiscing a little. Then I thought it might be sad. Hattie seemed to have read my mind.
"Remember Elysse? The French girl with the brown bangs?"