“I know,” he said. “I understand. I’ll wait.”

“But I want you to stay with me. I’m afraid of Charles. He hates me so.”

“I’ll bring my cot in here. Then you can call me if you’re frightened. You can reach out and touch me.”

“You’re so good,” she said. “Could we have some tea?”

“Why, sure, I’d like some myself.” He brought the steaming cups in and went back for the sugar bowl. He settled himself in a chair near her bed. “It’s pretty strong. Is it too strong for you?”

“I like it strong.”

He finished his cup. “Does it taste strange to you? It’s got a funny taste.”.

Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, let me taste it.” She sipped the dregs. “Adam,” she cried, “you got the wrong cup—that was mine. It had my medicine in it.”

He licked his lips. “I guess it can’t hurt me.”

“No, it can’t.” She laughed softly. “I hope I don’t need to call you in the night.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you drank my sleeping medicine. Maybe you wouldn’t wake up easily.”

Adam went down into a heavy opium sleep though he fought to stay awake. “Did the doctor tell you to take this much?” he asked thickly.

“You’re just not used to it,” she said.

Charles came back at eleven o’clock. Cathy heard his tipsy footsteps. He went into his room, flung off his clothes, and got into bed. He grunted and turned, trying to get comfortable, and then he opened his eyes. Cathy was standing by his bed. “What do you want?”

“What do you think? Move over a little.”

“Where’s Adam?”

“He drank my sleeping medicine by mistake. Move over a little.”

He breathed harshly. “I already been with a whore.”

“You’re a pretty strong boy. Move over a little.”

“How about your broken arm?”

“I’ll take care of that. It’s not your worry.”

Suddenly Charles laughed. “The poor bastard,” he said, and he threw back the blanket to receive her.

PART TWO

Chapter 12

YOU CAN SEE how this book has reached a great boundary that was called 1900. Another hundred years were ground up and churned, and what had happened was all muddied by the way folks wanted it to be—more rich and meaningful the farther back it was. In the books of some memories it was the best time that ever sloshed over the world—the old time, the gay time, sweet and simple, as though time were young and fearless. Old men who didn’t know whether they were going to stagger over the boundary of the century looked forward to it with distaste. For the world was changing, and sweetness was gone, and virtue too. Worry had crept on a corroding world, and what was lost—good manners, ease and beauty? Ladies were not ladies any more, and you couldn’t trust a gentleman’s word.

There was a time when people kept their fly buttons fastened. And man’s freedom was boiling off. And even childhood was no good any more—not the way it was. No worry then but how to find a good stone, not round exactly but flattened and water-shaped, to use in a sling pouch cut from a discarded shoe. Where did all the good stones go, and all simplicity?