T.S. slip from the universal chaplain of us all, with combined religions. You ought to be able to eat on that.”
“The hell with you,” the portrait said, without speaking. “You low class soldier.”
“Yes,” the Colonel said, for now he was a Colonel again, and had relinquished all his former rank.
“I love you, portrait, very much. But don’t get rough with me. I love you very much because you are beautiful. But I love the girl better, a million times better, hear it?”
There was no sign that she heard it, so he tired of it.
“You are in a fixed position, portrait,” he said. “Without or with any frame. And I am going to maneuver.”
The portrait was as silent as she had been since the concierge had brought her into the room, and aided and abetted by the second waiter, had shown her to the Colonel and to the girl.
The Colonel looked at her and saw she was indefensible, now that the light was good, or almost good.
He saw, too, that she was the portrait of his own true love, and so he said, “I am sorry for all the stupidnesses I say. I do not wish ever to be brutal. Maybe we could both sleep a little while, with luck, and then, perhaps, your Mistress would call on the telephone?”
Maybe she will even call, he thought.
