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“You want some dessert, or coffee?” Lane asked.
“I think I’ll just finish my milk. But you have some,” Franny said. The waiter had just taken away her plate with the untouched chicken sandwich. She didn’t dare to look up at him.
Lane looked at his wristwatch. “God. We don’t have time. We’re lucky if we get to the game on time.” He looked up at the waiter. “Just coffee for me, please.” He watched the waiter leave, then leaned forward, arms on the table, thoroughly relaxed, stomach full, coffee due to arrive momentarily, and said, “Well, it’s interesting, anyway. All that stuff . . . I don’t think you leave any margin for the most elementary psychology. I mean I think all those religious experiences have a very obvious psychological background—you know what I mean. . . . It’s interesting, though. I mean you can’t deny that.” He looked over at Franny and smiled at her. “Anyway. Just in case I forgot to mention it. I love you. Did I get around to mentioning that?”
“Lane, would you excuse me again for just a second?” Franny said. She had got up before the question was completely out.
Lane got up, too, slowly, looking at her. “You all right?” he asked. “You feel sick again, or what?”
“Just funny. I’ll be right back.”
She walked briskly through the dining room, taking the same route she had taken earlier. But she stopped quite short at the small cocktail bar at the far end of the room. The bartender, who was wiping a sherry glass dry, looked at her. She put her right hand on the bar, then lowered her head—bowed it—and put her left hand to her forehead, just touching it with the fingertips. She weaved a trifle, then fainted, collapsing to the floor.
It was nearly five minutes before Franny came thoroughly to. She was on a couch in the manager’s office, and Lane was sitting beside her. His face, suspended anxiously over hers, had a remarkable pallor of its own now.
“How are ya?” he said, in a rather hospital-room voice. “You feel any better?”
Franny nodded. She closed her eyes for a second against the overhead light, then reopened them. “Am I supposed to say ‘Where am I?’ ” she said. “Where am I?”
Lane laughed. “You’re in the manager’s office. They’re all running around looking for spirits of ammonia and doctors and things to bring you to. They’d just run out of ammonia, apparently. How do you feel? No kidding.”
“Fine. Stupid, but fine. Did I honestly faint?”
“And how. You really conked out,” Lane said. He took her hand in his. “What do you think’s the matter with you anyway? I mean you sounded so—you know—so perfect when I talked to you on the phone last week. Didn’t you eat any breakfast, or what?”
Franny shrugged. Her eyes looked around the room. “It’s so embarrassing,” she said. “Did somebody have to carry me in here?”
“The bartender and I. We sort of hoisted you in. You scared the hell out of me, I’m not kidding.”
Franny looked thoughtfully, without blinking, at the ceiling while her hand was held. Then she turned and, with her free hand, made a gesture as though to push back the cuff of Lane’s sleeve. “What time is it?” she asked.
“Never mind that,” Lane said. “We’re in no hurry.”
“You wanted to go to that cocktail party.”
“The hell with it.”
“Is it too late for the game, too?” Franny asked.
“Listen, I said the hell with it. You’re going to go back to your room at whosis—Blue Shutters—and get some rest, that’s the important thing,” Lane said. He sat a trifle closer to her and bent down and kissed her, briefly. He turned and looked over at the door, then back at Franny. “You’re just going to rest this afternoon. That’s all you’re going to do.” He stroked her arm for a moment. “Then maybe after a while, if you get any decent rest, I can get upstairs somehow. I think there’s a goddam back staircase. I can find out.”
Franny didn’t say anything. She looked at the ceiling.
“You know how long it’s been?” Lane said. “When was that Friday night? Way the hell early last month, wasn’t it?” He shook his head. “That’s no good. Too goddam long between drinks. To put it crassly.” He looked down at Franny more closely. “You really feel better?”
She nodded. She turned her head toward him. “I’m terribly thirsty, that’s all. Do you think I could have some water? Would it be too much trouble?”
“Hell, no! Will you be all right if I leave you for a second? You know what I think I’ll do?”
Franny shook her head to the second question.
“I’ll get somebody to bring you some water. Then I’ll get the headwaiter and call off the spirits of ammonia—and, incidentally, pay the check. Then I’ll get a cab all ready, so we won’t have to hunt all around for one. It may take a few minutes, because most of them will be cruising around for people going out to the game.” He let go Franny’s hand and got up. “O.K.?” he said.
“Fine.”
“O.K., I’ll be right back. Don’t move.” He left the room.
Alone, Franny lay quite still, looking at the ceiling. Her lips began to move, forming soundless words, and they continued to move.
