I will go back to my five kinds of cigars and my sixteen kinds of brandy; Bertha will return to her endless fantasy of pastries and desserts—an endless, joyous parade of goodies, never farther away than the nearest dumb-waiter door. And we will both become softer, heavier, a little less responsive.
When, as sometimes happens, the sweet lethargy threatens to choke off our breath, we will step into our flying platform and set its automatic controls for Miami, Palm Beach, or the Cote d'Azur. There are conducted tours to the Himalayas now, or to the "lost" cities of the South American jungles, or to the bottom of any one of the seven seas. We will bide our time, much as others do.
But we will survive these things: I still have my four hours per month at Central Computing and Control; Bertha has her endless and endlessly varying work on committees (the last one was dedicated to the abolition of gambling at Las Vegas in favor of such wholesome games as Scrabble and checkers).
We cannot soften and slough away altogether, for when all else fails, when the last stronghold of the spirit is in peril, there is always the vision of year's end and another glorious vacation.