XXV
When he had tottered out, d**k and Rosemary embraced fleetingly. There was a dust of Paris over both of them through which they scented each other: the rubber guard on d**k’s fountain pen, the faintest odor of warmth from Rosemary’s neck and shoulders. For another half-minute d**k clung to the situation; Rosemary was first to return to reality.
‘I must go, youngster,’ she said.
They blinked at each other across a widening space, and Rosemary made an exit that she had learned young, and on which no director had ever tried to improve.
She opened the door of her room and went directly to her desk where she had suddenly remembered leaving her wristwatch. It was there; slipping it on she glanced down at the daily letter to her mother, finishing the last sentence in her mind. Then, rathe
