“No taxis.”
“We could walk up to the Pantheon and get one.”
“Come on and we’ll get a drink in the pub next door and send for one.”
“You wouldn’t walk across the street.”
“Not if I could help it.”
We went into the next bar and I sent a waiter for a taxi.
“Well,” I said, “we’re out away from them.”
We stood against the tall zinc bar and did not talk and looked at each other. The waiter came and said the taxi was outside. Brett pressed my hand hard. I gave the waiter a franc and we went out. “Where should I tell him?” I asked.
“Oh, tell him to drive around.”
I told the driver to go to the Parc Montsouris, and got in, and slammed the door. Brett was leaning back in the corner, her eyes closed. I sat beside her. The cab started with a jerk.
“Oh, darling, I’ve been so miserable,” Brett said.
