“No Caliph of Bagdad business!” countered his friend. “You pick out a book that may keep her from being lonely, and write something in it, so she can remember you when you marry an oil princess in Connecticut.”
“There isn't any oil in Connecticut, Rick.”
“Well, nutmegs then. Your father says it's called the Nutmeg State. You'll make a whole crop of new princesses out of this war. They'll be bored, and they'll be crazy about you because you speak French, and dance, and have culture — you'll rank with a marquis or a Russian grand duke in exile.”
Lanny was amused by this picture of himself in New England. He wanted to say: “They'll find out that I'm a bastard.” But his lips were sealed.
Half a day, a night, and another day; never had thirty hours moved with such speed! They went to the Comedie Française, and sat in a box; they had a meal at midnight, and Robbie ordered an extra bottle of wine. They strolled on the boulevards in the morning, luxuriating in the sunshine, watching the crowds and gazing at the fine things for sale. Lanny bought a stock of chocolates, the one thing Rick admitted the chaps in the air force would appreciate. They picked up an old-fashioned open carriage with a bony but lively horse, and were driven about the Bois and the main boulevards, looking at historic buildings and remembering what they could of events. Rick knew a little about everything; he had all his old assurance, his worldly manner which impressed his younger friend so greatly.
Robbie came back to the hotel, feeling good, because Zaharoff's factotum had given way, and the other companies were giving way, and Robbie was collecting signatures on dotted lines. Lanny had to ask him not to be too exultant until Rick was gone. “You know how it is, he's giving his life, maybe, while we're making money.”
“All right,” said the salesman, with one of his chuckles. “I'll be good; but you tell Rick that if his old man wants to sell The Reaches, you'll buy it!” No use asking Robbie to shed any tears over the English aristocracy. They had had their day, and now the American businessmen were to have theirs. Gangway!
However, Robbie was very decent when the time for parting came. He had a big package delivered to Rick's room, and told him not to open it until he got back to camp. He told Lanny it contained cigarettes; the baronet's son would be the darling of the corps wing for a time. Robbie shook hands with him, and said “Cheerio,” in the approved English fashion.
Lanny went to the train, and had tears in his eyes, he just couldn't help it. It would have been very bad form for Rick to have them; he said: “Thanks, old chap, you've been perfectly bully to me.” And then: “Take care of yourself, and don't let the subs get you.”
“Write me a post card every now and then,” pleaded Lanny. “You know how it is, if I don't hear from you, I'll worry.”