«The cat doesn’t seem to feel anything,» he said.
«No, I’m afraid he won’t live».
«But he’s purring».
«Will you hold him, please? This is the last».
He wanted to talk, to take his mind off his dizziness, away from what was going on just below his face on the bed. He could think of nothing to say, so he kept silent. The cat stirred slightly. Daisy straightened up, and at the same moment there was a splitting sound and a heavy crash somewhere outside in the darkness. They looked at each other. Daisy set the syringe on the table.
«I know what that was. One of our eucalyptus. God, what a night!» she said admiringly.
They shut the door and went downstairs. In the drawing room there was no one. «I daresay they’ve gone out to look. Let’s go into the library. The fireplace draws better in there. This one’s smoking».
The library was small and pleasant; the fire crackled. She pushed a wall button and they sat down on the divan. She looked at him, musing.
«Jack told me you were coming, but somehow I never thought you’d actually arrive».
«Why not?» He felt a little better now.
«Oh, you know. Such things have a way of not coming off. Frightfully good idea that misses fire. And then, of course, I can’t see really why Jack needs anyone there in that little office».
«You mean it’s not doing well?» He tried to keep his voice even.
She laid a hand on his arm and laughed. As though she were imparting a rather shameful secret, she said in a low voice: «My dear, if you think he makes even his luncheon money there, you’re gravely mistaken».
She was studying him too carefully, trying to see the effect of her words. He would refuse to react. He felt hot all over, but did not speak. Hugo entered carrying a tray of bottles and glasses. They both took brandy, and he set the tray down on a table at Dyar’s elbow and went out.
She was still looking at him.
«Oh, it’s not going well,» he said. He would not say what he was sure she was waiting for him to say: How does he keep going?
«Not at all. It never has».
«I’m sorry to hear that,» said Dyar.
«There’s no need to be. If it had gone well I daresay he wouldn’t have sent for you. He’d have had just about all he could manage by himself. As it is, I expect he needs you far more».
Dyar made a puzzled face. «I don’t follow that».
Daisy looked pleased. «Tangier. Tangier,» she said. «You’ll follow soon enough, my pet».
They heard voices in the hall.
«You’ll be wanting a good many books to read, I should think,» she said. «Do feel free to borrow anything here that interests you. Of course there’s a circulating library run by the American Legation that’s far better than the English library. But they take ages to get the new books».
«I don’t read much,» said Dyar.
«But my dear lamb, whatever are you going to do all day? You’ll be bored to distraction».
«Oh, well. Jack» —
«I doubt it,» she said. «I think you’ll be alone from morning to night, every day».
The voices were no longer audible. «They’ve gone into the kitchen,» she said. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, held it up to her.
«No, thank you. I have some. But seriously, I can’t think what you’ll do all day, you know». She felt in her bag and withdrew a small gold case.
«I’ll probably have work to do,» he replied, getting a match to the end of her cigarette before she could lift her lighter.
She laughed shortly, blew out the flame, and seized his hand, the match still between his fingers. «Let me see that hand,» she said, puffing on her cigarette. Dyar smiled and held his palm out stiffly for her to examine. «Relax it,» she said, drawing the hand nearer to her face.
«Work!» she scoffed. «I see no sign of it here, my dear Mr. Dyar».
He was incensed. «Well, it’s a liar, then. Work is all I’ve ever done».
«Oh, standing in a bank, perhaps, but that’s so light it wouldn’t show». She looked carefully, pushing the flesh of the hand with her fingers. «No. I see no sign of work. No sign of anything, to be quite honest. I’ve never seen such an empty hand. It’s terrifying». She looked up at him.
Again he laughed. «You’re stumped, are you?»
«Not at all. I’ve lived in America long enough to have seen a good many American hands. All I can say is that this is the worst».
He pretended great indignation, withdrawing his hand forcibly. «What do you mean, worst?» he cried.
She looked at him with infinite concern in her eyes. «I mean,» she said, «that you have an empty life. No pattern. And nothing in you to give you any purpose. Most people can’t help following some kind of design. They do it automatically because it’s in their nature. It’s that that saves them, pulls them up short. They can’t help themselves. But you’re safe from being saved».
«A unique specimen. Is that it?»
«In a way». She searched his face questioningly for a moment. «How odd,» she murmured presently. This empty quality in him pleased her. It was rather as if he were naked, — not defenseless, exactly — merely unclothed, ready to react, and she found it attractive; men should be like that. But it struck her as strange that she should think so.
«How odd what?» he inquired. «That I should be unique?» He could see that she believed all she was saying, and since it was flattering to have the attention being paid him, he was ready to argue with her, if necessary, just to prolong it.
«Yes».
«I’ve never been able to believe all this astrology and palmistry business,» he said. «It doesn’t hold water».
She did not answer, and so he continued. «Let’s leave hands for a minute and get down to personalities». The brandy was warming him; he felt far from ill now. «You mean you think each individual man’s life is different and has its own pattern, as you call it?»
«Yes, of course».
«But that’s impossible!» he cried. «It stands to reason. Just look around you. There never was any mass production to compare with the one that turns out human beings — all the same model, year after year, century after century, all alike, always the same person». He felt a little exalted at the sound of his own voice. «You might say there’s only one person in the world, and we’re all it».
She was silent for a moment; then she said: «Rubbish». What he was saying made her vaguely angry. She wondered if it were because she resented his daring to express his ideas at all, but she did not think it was that.
«Look, my pet,» she said in a conciliatory tone, «just what do you want in life?»
«That’s a hard question,» he said slowly. She had taken the wind out of his sails. «I suppose I want to feel I’m getting something out of it».