As he did so, he had a peculiar feeling of slipping back in time a half year—their last meeting in New York, the sense of their friendship. He wondered whether belonging to the Tribe would put an end to that.
A perspiring bell boy brought the ink, took the tip thankfully and made some remark about the weather. The door closed behind him and Robert began writing. It was dreadful business telling her about the family financial troubles. Why should he do it? Well, it had to be done somehow. He wondered why it should be Margaret—how they had really become engaged.
Levin surprised him by telephoning from the lobby, just as he was dashing off the last line. He hastily addressed the envelope, folded the letter, slipped it inside and grabbed his hat. He looked guiltily at a little pile of Tribal propaganda and placed it in the dresser drawer out of sight. The Tribe was, somehow, against the Jews. He hadn’t found out why yet, but it seemed more decent to have the booklets out of sight.
Levin was pacing the lobby, the same old Levin, only a bit overworked perhaps, nervous. But it was good to see him again. Levin’s face lit up.
“It’s like being in Paris again,” he remarked. “Welcome to Chicago!” He would have had Robert up to the house, but something made that impossible. His sister was having a little society meeting—or something like that.
“It’s great to see you again, Doc,” said Hamilton.
“You have come just in time. I needed someone to talk to.” Levin knew a restaurant, De Jonghe’s, and whisked him to it. It was somewhat Gallic, not exactly a French restaurant, but as French as one might reasonably expect five thousand miles west of Paris. And the food was delicious. They lingered over it.
“You look—” Robert paused. “Have you just fallen into love or out?”
Levin laughed.
“Well, perhaps, out. Not exactly, though.” He changed the subject. “What’s that?” He had noticed the paper in Robert’s pocket.