"Did you ever row?" she asked.

"No," he said, "never. Too much fag. I played squash and roulette.
You look like a newly risen moon in her first quarter. Where would
you like to go?"

"I don't know," said Joan. "Let's break away from the conventional
places. I rather want to see queer people and taste different food.
But don't let's discuss it. I leave it to you." She went downstairs.
She might have been living in that house for years.

He followed, admiring the way her small, patrician head was set on
her shoulders, and the rich brown note of her hair. Extraordinary
little person, this! He told his chauffeur to drive to the Brevoort,
and got into the car. It was possible at that hour to deal with the
Avenue as a street and not as a rest-cure interrupted by short
spurts.

"Would you rather the windows were up, Gehane?" he asked, looking at
her through his long lashes.

"No. The air's full of new ferns. But why Gehane?"

"You remind me of her, and I'm pretty certain that you also could do
your hair in the same two long braids. Given the chance, I can see
you developing into some-thing like medievalism and joining the
ranks of women who loved greatly."

They passed the Plaza with all its windows gleaming, like a giant's