“Damn you,” said Wallace Johnston. “Play that new Bach album then.”
“Very good, sir,” said the steward. He went over to the record cabinet and took out an album and moved with it to the phonograph. He began playing the “Sarabande.”
“Did you see Tommy Bradley today?” asked Henry Carpenter. “I saw him as the plane came in.”
“I can’t bear him,” said Wallace. “Neither him nor that whore of a wife of his.”
“I like Helène,” said Henry Carpenter. “She has such a good time.”
“Did you ever try it?”
“Of course. It’s marvellous.”
“I can’t stick her at any price,” said Wallace Johnston. “Why in God’s name does she live down here?”
“They have a lovely place.”
“It is a nice clean little yacht basin,” said Wallace Johnston. “Is it true Tommy Bradley’s impotent?”
“I shouldn’t think so. You hear that about everyone. He’s simply broad minded.”
“Broad minded is excellent. She’s certainly a broad if there ever was one.”
“She’s a remarkably nice woman,” said Henry Carpenter. “You’d like her, Wally.”
“I would not,” said Wallace. “She represents everything I hate in a woman, and Tommy Bradley epitomizes everything I hate in a man.”
“You feel awfully strongly tonight.”
“You never feel strongly because you have no consistency,” Wallace Johnston said. “You can’t make up your mind. You don’t know what you are even.”
“Let’s drop me,” said Henry Carpenter. He lit a cigarette.
“Why should I?”
“Well, one reason you might is because I go with you on your bloody yacht, and at least half the time I do what you want to do, and that keeps you from paying blackmail to the busboys and sailors, and one thing and another, that do know what they are, and what you are.”
“You’re in a pretty mood,” said Wallace Johnston. “You know I never pay blackmail.”
“No. You’re too tight to. You have friends like me instead.”
“I haven’t any other friends like you.”
“Don’t be charming,” said Henry. “I don’t feel up to it tonight. Just go ahead and play Bach and abuse your steward and drink a little too much and go to bed.”
“What’s gotten into you?” said the other, standing up. “Why are you getting so damned unpleasant? You’re not such a great bargain, you know.”
“I know,” said Henry. “I’ll be oh so jolly tomorrow. But tonight’s a bad night. Didn’t you ever notice any difference in nights? I suppose when you’re rich enough there isn’t any difference.”
“You talk like a school girl.”
“Good night,” said Henry Carpenter. “I’m not a school girl nor a school boy. I’m going to bed. Everything will be awfully jolly in the morning.”
“What did you lose? Is that what makes you so gloomy?”
“I lost three hundred.”
“See? I told you that was it.”
“You always know, don’t you?”
“But look. You lost three hundred.”
“I’ve lost more than that.”
“How much more?”
“The jackpot,” said Henry Carpenter. “The eternal jackpot. I’m playing a machine now that doesn’t give jackpots anymore. Only tonight I just happened to think about it. Usually I don’t think about it. Now I’m going to bed so I won’t bore you.”
“You don’t bore me. But just try not to be rude.” “I’m afraid I’m rude and you bore me. Good night.
Everything will be fine tomorrow.”
“You’re damned rude.”
“Take it or leave it,” said Henry. “I’ve been doing both all my life.”
“Good night,” said Wallace Johnston hopefully.
Henry Carpenter did not answer. He was listening to the Bach.
“Don’t go off to bed like that,” Wallace Johnston said. “Why be so temperamental?”
“Drop it.”
“Why should I? I’ve seen you come out of it before.”
“Drop it.”
“Have a drink and cheer up.”
“I don’t want a drink and it wouldn’t cheer me up.”
“Well, go off to bed, then.”
“I am,” said Henry Carpenter.