“Sold to TRUST,” the Colonel said, this being the code designation of the task force occupying Trieste. “He only costs me a day’s wages.”
“Put your hand in your right hand pocket and feel very rich,” the girl said.
The Gran Maestro had sensed this was a private joke and had gone; silently. He was happy about the girl, whom he respected and admired, and he was happy for his Colonel.
“I am rich,” the Colonel said. “But if you tease me about them, I will give them back, and on the linen tablecloth, and in public.”
He was teasing rough in his turn; throwing in the counter-attack without even thinking.
“No you won’t,” she said. “Because you love them already.”
“I would take anything I love and throw it off the highest cliff you ever saw and not wait to hear it bounce.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” the girl said. “You would not throw me off any high cliffs.”
“No,” the Colonel agreed. “And forgive me for talking badly.”
“You didn’t talk very badly and I didn’t believe it anyway,” the girl told him. “Now should I go to the women’s room to comb my hair and make myself presentable, or should I come up to your room?”
“Which do you wish?”
“To come to your room, of course, and see how you live and how things are there.”
“What about the hotel?”
