“Couldn’t sleep,” Slothrop yawning back down into the room, birds in the sunlight kiting behind him.

“Nor we,” from Tantivy. “It must take years to adjust.”

“God,” Bloat really pushing the forced enthusiasm this morning, pointing theatrically at the enormous bed, collapsing onto it, bouncing vigorously. “They must have had advance word about you, Slothrop! Luxury! They gave us some disused closet, you know.”

“Hey, what are you telling him?” Slothrop forages around for cigarettes. “I’m some kind of a Van Johnson or something?”

“Only that, in the matter of,” Tantivy from the balcony tossing his green pack of Cravens, “girls, you know—”

“Englishmen being rather reserved,” Bloat explains, bouncing for emphasis.

“Oh, raving maniacs,” Slothrop mumbles, heading for his private lavatory, “been invaded by a gang of those section 8s, all right… .” Stands pleased, pissing no-hands, lighting up, but wondering a little about that Bloat. Supposed to be oldtime pals with Tantivy. He snaps the match into the toilet, a quick hiss: yet something about the way he talks to Slothrop, patronizing? maybe nervous…

“You’re expecting me to fix you guys up?” he yells over the crash of the toilet flushing, “I thought the minute you guys get across that Channel, set foot on that France, you all turn into Valentinos.”

“I hear there was some prewar tradition,” Tantivy hanging plaintive now in the doorway, “but Bloat and I are members of the New Generation, we have to depend on Yank expertise… .”

Whereupon Bloat leaps from the bed and seeks to enlighten Slothrop with a song:

THE ENGLISHMAN’S VERY SHY (FOX-TROT)

(Bloat): The Englishman’s very shy,

He’s none of your Ca-sa-no-va,

At bowling the ladies o-ver,

A-mericans lead the pack—

(Tantivy): —You see, your Englishman tends to lack

That recklessness transatlantic,

That women find so romantic

Though frankly I can’t see why…

(Bloat): The polygamous Yank with his girls galore

Gives your Brit-ish rake or carouser fits,

(Tantivy): Though he’s secretly held in re-ve-rent awe

As a sort of e-rot-ic Clausewitz… .

(Together): If only one could al-ly

A-merican bedroom know-how

With British good looks, then oh how

Those lovelies would swoon and sigh,

Though you and I know the Englishman’s very shy.

“Well you’ve sure come to the right place,” nods Slothrop, convinced. “Only don’t expect me to put it in for you.”

“Just the initial approach,” Bloat says.

“Moi,” Tantivy has meanwhile been screaming down from the balcony, “Moi Tantivy, you know. Tantivy.”

“Tantivy,” replies a dim girl-chorus from outside and below.

“J’ai deux amis, aussi, by an odd coincidence. Par un bizarre coincidence, or something, oui?”

Slothrop, at this point shaving, wanders out with the foamy badger brush in his fist to see what’s happening, and collides with Bloat, who’s dashing to peer down over his compatriot’s left epaulet at three pretty girls’ faces, upturned, straw-haloed each by a giant sun-hat, smiles all dazzling, eyes mysterious as the sea behind them.

“I say où,” inquires Bloat, “où, you know, déjeuner?”

“Glad I could help you out,” Slothrop mutters, lathering Tantivy between the shoulderblades.