“Dammit, man, who said you could take a pic?”

“Now, Wilf, just for the record—”

“There isn’t going to be any record.”

“You should have asked, hon.”

“I didn’t think Wilf would mind, hon.”

“Rick.”

“Yes, Wilf?”

“Don’t do it again, hon, ever. I’ll sue.”

The manager had disappeared—hotelier’s tact. We inspected our menus and I passed the time boring them with a description of meals that I’d had in one place or another. The open air made Rick excited and voluble, once a little drink had helped him. Mary Lou was more silent and seemed worried, I thought, as if expecting Rick to make a fool of himself. Then just when I had tried and failed to raise a smile on that exquisite young face she changed her mind about not drinking. She said she’d like a large vodka, please, which Rick acclaimed as if she’d won a prize of some sort. Then as if I were the only person to be bored by my recital I found them both animated and myself dull, moodily jealous of their youth and wondering what the devil I’d got myself into. Rick talked about astronomy—apparently there was an observatory somewhere in sight—and bewailed the fact that they could see so little Swiss sky from their window. Mary Lou looked absent. Rick turned to her from me.

“Was there any sun, hon?”

“Sun, hon?”

“In our room this afternoon, hon.”

“Why none, hon, I guess not.”

“If you want sun or stars,” I said, “there’s always my balcony. Let’s adjourn and have a look. What’s it like outside? We might even—”

Rick stood up promptly. Mary Lou seized her hand bag and fled.

“What does she call it, Rick? The powder room? I collected them in the States: kings and queens, dukes and duchesses, guys and dolls, chiefs and squaws—that one was interesting, don’t you think? Sociologically, I mean. It should have been braves and squaws. But then, that was all years ago. Perhaps now—but the custom’s spreading. I’ve even seen it in England. Cultural imperialism.”

“We’ll be happy to see your stars, Wilf.”

“What promotion. Have another drink before—it’s the butt end of the bottle.”

Rick sniggered. I said no more and we waited, standing, while he beat his fingers restlessly on the table.

“You know, Rick, two bottles between three is a sign of incipient alcoholism. Since Mary Lou drank nothing but that vodka—does she know anything about astronomy?”

There was a long pause. Rick came to with a start.

“Sorry, Wilf, I didn’t—”

“Mary Lou. Astronomy.”

“She’s interested.”

“I’m not, you know. Oh yes I am. Damn the wine. Waiter!”

It was the manager, of course. I asked him for a bottle of brandy, which he brought after a time. Rick continued to drum with his fingers.

“For God’s sake, man—haven’t you had enough exercise?”

“I don’t get it, Wilf.”

He knocked back his brandy out of the balloon in a way that was positively contemptible. I played the civilized game, warming the balloon with my hands, breathing in what I supposed was the aroma, though I have practically no sense of smell at all. Time passed.