Dick judged the jewelled eroticism of Puccini opportune; but when it was over...
'In my young days,' she commented, 'there wasn't any opera. It was thought rather German. Do put on a fox-trot.'
'I don't know that one,' she said at the end. 'Of course,' she added.
Dick searched, and found a one-step that dated back to the war.
She sighed. 'There's nothing that reminds like a tune. I take it the Recording Angel keeps a list of all one's most pricelessly associated tunes, and has them played to one in hell.'
'I'm sorry. I didn't think——' he lied.
'What is there on the back? Yes, let's have that. How sick one was of it!'
When the commonplace little tune was played, 'I can't bear any more,' she said. 'Give me a cigarette. If it's a "flag" I'll burst into tears.'
It wasn't, and they talked—or he told her—of dances, theatres, the marriages and divorces of their mutual friends and enemies.
'How soon do you go back?' she asked.