Oliver nods.

"I'll be sitting there, at night especially, in that little tin Tophet of a
room on Madison Avenue, working. I _can_ work, if I do say it myself--I'm
hoping to get through with school in January, now. But it gets pretty
lonely, sometimes when there's nobody to run into that you can really talk
to--the people I used to play with in College are out of New York for the
summer--even Peter's down at Southampton most of the time or out at
Star Bay--you're in Melgrove--Sam Woodward's married and working in
Chicago--Brick Turner's in New Mexico--I've dropped out of the Wall Street
bunch in the class that hang out at the Yale Club--I'm posted there
anyhow, and besides they've all made money and I haven't, and all they want
to talk about is puts and calls. And then you remember things.

"The time my pilot and I blew into Paris when we thought we were hitting
somewhere around Nancy till we saw that blessed Eiffel Tower poking out
of the fog. And the Hotel de Turenne on Rue Vavin and getting up in the
morning and going out for a cafe cognac breakfast, and everything being
amiable and pleasant, and kidding along all the dear little ladies that sat
on the _terrasse_ when they dropped in to talk over last evening's affairs.
I suppose I'm a sensualist--"

"Everybody is." from Oliver.

"Well, that's another thing. Women. And love. Ollie, my son, you don't know
how very damn lucky you are!"

"I think I do, rather," says Oliver, a little stiffly.