“ALL RIGHT,” said the man. “What about it?”
“No,” said the girl, “I can’t.”
“You mean you won’t.”
“I can’t,” said the girl. “That’s all that I mean.”
“You mean that you won’t.”
“All right,” said the girl. “You have it your own way.”
“I don’t have it my own way. I wish to God I did.”
“You did for a long time,” the girl said.
It was early, and there was no one in the café except the barman and these two who sat together at a table in the corner. It was the end of the summer and they were both tanned, so that they looked out of place in Paris. The girl wore a tweed suit, her skin was a smooth golden brown, her blonde hair was cut short and grew beautifully away from her forehead. The man looked at her.
“I’ll kill her,” he said.
“Please don’t,” the girl said. She had very fine hands and the man looked at them. They were slim and brown and very beautiful.
“I will. I swear to God I will.”
“It won’t make you happy.”
“Couldn’t you have gotten into something else? Couldn’t you have gotten into some other jam?”
“It seems not,” the girl said. “What are you going to do about it?”
“I told you.”
“No; I mean really.”
“I don’t know,” he said. She looked at him and put out her
