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"
Tell
Miss
Hoyt
you
couldn
’
t
find
me
.
"
Turning
to
Collis
he
suggested
the
Bonbonieri
.
They
inspected
the
tart
at
the
bar
,
granting
her
the
minimum
of
interest
exacted
by
her
profession
,
and
she
stared
back
with
bright
boldness
;
they
went
through
the
deserted
lobby
oppressed
by
draperies
holding
Victorian
dust
in
stuffy
folds
,
and
they
nodded
at
the
night
concierge
who
returned
the
gesture
with
the
bitter
servility
peculiar
to
night
servants
.
Then
in
a
taxi
they
rode
along
cheerless
streets
through
a
dank
November
night
.
There
were
no
women
in
the
streets
,
only
pale
men
with
dark
coats
buttoned
to
the
neck
,
who
stood
in
groups
beside
shoulders
of
cold
stone
.
"
My
God
!
"
Dick
sighed
.
"
What
’
s
a
matter
?
"
"
I
was
thinking
of
that
man
this
afternoon
:
‘
This
table
is
reserved
for
the
Princess
Orsini
.
’
Do
you
know
what
these
old
Roman
families
are
?
They
’
re
bandits
,
they
’
re
the
ones
who
got
possession
of
the
temples
and
palaces
after
Rome
went
to
pieces
and
preyed
on
the
people
.
"
"
I
like
Rome
,
"
insisted
Collis
.
"
Why
won
’
t
you
try
the
races
?
"
"
I
don
’
t
like
races
.
"
"
But
all
the
women
turn
out
—
"
"
I
know
I
wouldn
’
t
like
anything
here
.
I
like
France
,
where
everybody
thinks
he
’
s
Napoleon
—
down
here
everybody
thinks
he
’
s
Christ
.
"
At
the
Bonbonieri
they
descended
to
a
panelled
cabaret
,
hopelessly
impermanent
amid
the
cold
stone
.
A
listless
band
played
a
tango
and
a
dozen
couples
covered
the
wide
floor
with
those
elaborate
and
dainty
steps
so
offensive
to
the
American
eye
.
A
surplus
of
waiters
precluded
the
stir
and
bustle
that
even
a
few
busy
men
can
create
;
over
the
scene
as
its
form
of
animation
brooded
an
air
of
waiting
for
something
,
for
the
dance
,
the
night
,
the
balance
of
forces
which
kept
it
stable
,
to
cease
.
It
assured
the
impressionable
guest
that
whatever
he
was
seeking
he
would
not
find
it
here
.
