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"Sixty-four Boulevard Saint-Germain and hurry." Leaving Paris? She had no right to do that. Edhart never left. That was the beauty of Edhart that he remained stationary, so that he could always be found. He was quite sure that Edhart was too considerate even to die, could he have avoided it. Now Marjory was proposing to go and leave him here alone. He could not allow that.
It was as if in all these years he had known her only through her photograph, as one knows friends of one's friends about whom one has for long heard a great deal, without ever meeting them face to face. From the moment he first saw her in the Place de l'Opera she had made him conscious of her as, in another way, he had always been conscious of Edhart.
Even Edhart might have been pardoned for making this mistake in the distribution of the luggage, if not previously informed.
It was not that he was bored; those who are bored never stop to ask themselves why they are bored or they would not be bored. It was not that he was homesick, because, strictly speaking, he had no home. A home seems to involve the female element and some degree of permanence. This unrest was something new something, apparently, that had to do vaguely with the fact that he was thirty-two. If Edhart
Later, when he came to Nice, it was with a listlessness foreign to him. In the first place, he missed Edhart, the old maître d'hôtel who for a decade had catered to his primitive American tastes in the matter of foodstuffs with as much enthusiasm as if he had been a Parisian epicure.
Each year began when Edhart bade him a smiling au revoir at the door of the Hôtel des Roses; and that same year did not end, but began again, when the matter of ten or eleven months later Monte found Edhart still at the door to greet him. So it was always possible, the year round, to think of Edhart as ever standing by the door smilingly awaiting him.
She heard him muttering a name. She listened to catch it. "Edhart," he called. "Oh, Edhart!" Under proper conditions, being wounded in the shoulder may have its pleasant features. They were not so obvious to Monte in the early part of the evening, because he was pretty much befuddled with ether; but sometime before dawn he woke up feeling fairly normal and clear-headed and interested.
He had only to call her name. Not that he really had any intention in the world of doing it. The idea rather embarrassed him. He would not know what to say to a young lady at this hour of the night even Marjory. But there she was some one from home, some one he knew and who knew him. It was like having Edhart within reach.
But no one at his club, on the boat, or at Davos not even Edhart had given him this: this being the somewhat vague word he used to describe what he was now enjoying as Marjory sat by the window reading to him. It had nothing to do with being read aloud to. He could at any time have summoned a valet to do that, and in five minutes would have felt like throwing the book any book at the valet's head.
That same service was furnished him, if to a more limited extent, on the transatlantic liners, where Monte's name upon the passenger list was immediately passed down the line with the word that he must have the best. At Davos his needs were anticipated a week in advance; at Nice there had been Edhart, who added his smiling self to everything else.
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