Forty-fourth, the crosstown glitter of lights, the reflected glow of
Broadway, spraying the sky with dim gold-dust, begins to die a little
behind them. Past pompous expensive windows full of the things that Oliver
and Nancy will buy when Oliver's novel has gone into its first fifty
thousand, content with the mere touch of each other's hands, they are so
sure of each other now. Past people, dozens of people, getting fewer and
fewer as Forty-sixth Street comes, Forty-seventh, Forty-eighth, always a
little arrogantly because none of the automatic figures they pass have ever
eaten friendly bread together or had fire that can burn over them like
clear salt water or the knowledge that the only thing worth having in life
is the hurt and gladness of that fire. Buses pass like big squares of
honeycomb on wheels, crowded with pale, tired bees--the stars march slowly
from the western slope to their light viewless pinnacle in the center of
the heavens, walking brightly like strong men in silvered armor--the stars
and the buses, the buses and the stars, either and both of as little and
much account--it would not really surprise either Oliver or Nancy if the
next green bus that passes should start climbing into the sky like a clumsy
bird.

The first intoxication is still upon them--they have told nobody except
anyone who ever sees them together--they walk tactfully and never too
close, both having a horror of publicly amatory couples, but like the
king's daughter--or was it Solomon's Temple?--they are all glorious within.
Fifty-fifth, Fifty-sixth, Fifty-seventh--the square in front of the
Plaza--that tall chopped bulky tower lit from within like a model in a
toyshop window--motors purring up to its door like thin dark cats, motors
purring away. The fountain with the little statue--the pool a cool dark
stone cracked with the gold of the lights upon it, and near the trees of
the Park, half-hidden, gold Sherman, riding, riding, Victory striding ahead
of him with a golden palm.