of the room in Venice, his haggard eyes on the watch for signs of betrayal. Vaudreuil's pale hair hung straight over his forehead, and his long fingers were deeply stained with nicotine.
"I'm afraid I disturbed you," said Grover, leaving the windows and coming forward to a chair.
"Not at all," replied Vaudreuil, stretching himself on a couch and reaching for a cigarette case which proved to be empty. He accepted one of Grover's cigarettes and lit it. "I'm sure it's time to be up."
It has been for hours, Grover was thinking, shocked at such laziness yet envying the other his lack of concern. Artistically, he reflected, it's a sin to feel you must be up and doing. Sleep is a pagan blessing, to be accepted whenever it vouchsafes itself. Schedules are unaesthetic.
It was an absurd situation. Grover had nothing to say. Apparently this young man was inarticulate so early in the day, and there was no indication of a move on his part to prepare himself for the lunch to which Grover had invited him. Only Vaudreuil's lack of embarrassment saved the situation,—that and Grover's private sense of being in the right. After all he had come, by appointment, to take his friend out; if the friend sat there like a broken idol, apathetically smoking, let him do so, and make the next move when he was ready.
A door in the rear of the apartment slammed faintly, and brought a sign of life from Vaudreuil.
