a question. I think I get the general idea, though. And the answer is that it doesn’t much matter.”
“But don’t you have to be near that college in the Midlands where you teach children to put mustaches on the Mona Lisa?”
“Midwest, not Midlands. And we needn’t live there if we don’t want to.”
“Lumme,” said Sybil, “I’ve either married into the unemployed or the idle rich.”
“It’s like this,” said Tim. “I could go back to my old teaching job tomorrow if I wanted to, but even there the housing situation is murder. One of my confreres is living in a squash court.”
“Does he like squash?”
“Not any more. And besides, even if we could find a wigwam out there, I’d still be a lowly instructor. Which, financially speaking, is very, very lowly. On the other hand, if between now and next fall, I can wangle myself a Ph.D. degree, I’d stand a pretty fair chance of landing an assistant professorship someplace.”
“Would I have to call you Doctor?”
“Oh, sure. But you got used to calling me Captain, didn’t you?”
“More or less. How does one go about wangling a Ph.D.? Is there a black market in them?”
“Probably. However, I propose to go through the usual procedure of writing a dissertation. Something hefty. The fallacy of nationalism in the one world of art, something like that.”
“Most impressive,” said Sybil. “Shall I be able to help you?”
“Yes. But not with no clothes on.”
“Tsk, tsk. Double negative. And from a man about to write a Ph.D. thesis, too.”
“In order to write this thesis, aside from grammar,” said Tim, “I’ll need a desk with a roof over it. What I’d like would be someplace in the country, not too far from a city or at least from a public library. But try and find it.”
“Even if we did find it,” said Sybil, “how would we eat? I hate to be mercenary, but I’ve been doing some awfully slim eating the last few years.”
Tim grinned at her. “I’ve got three months’ terminal leave pay and a couple of penny banks I managed to fill before the war. That ought to see us through the thesis, at least. Afterward, maybe we’ll wind up in a nice little house on the edge of some college campus with built-in bookcases and an open fireplace.”
“And I’ll have other professors’ wives to tea and flirt with the undergraduates.”
“Any undergraduate caught flirting with you,” said Tim, “will be automatically flunked.”
“Gracious,” said Sybil, “that sounds dreadful. Do you do it with a cat-o’-nine-tails?”
“It depends. But let’s not dwell on the rosy future. The question before the meeting is, do we dwell at all?”
“So what do we do about it? Aside from lying in bed and drinking champagne. Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”
“Well,” said Tim, “I’ve got a car. Not much of a car, but a car.”
“But, darling!” cried Sybil, sitting up again, “how marvelous. You know, people in England don’t just have cars. Cars impress us the way titles do you. And they’re much more useful.”
“And much easier to pick up second-hand.”
“Possibly. So we have a car. How thrilling. And what do we do with it?”
“Well, I thought we might drive around the country for a few days and see what we can find in the way of a desk and a roof.”
“And a bed.”
“Mm, yes. Maybe we could use the desk, in a pinch.”
“I hope it’s the roll-top kind. Wouldn’t it be cozy?”
“Sounds like a song title. Rolling in the roll-top. Anyway, that’s the plan.”
“And a lovely plan it is, my sweet. When do we start?”
“Whenever you like. I thought it might be fun to have an evening on the town first.”
“Oh, wonderful. A real bang-up binge.”
“Why not? A fellow doesn’t meet a new wife every day.”
“You might think it was every day,” murmured Sybil with a trace of a pout, “considering the distance between us.”
Chapter Three
Double Feature With Fireworks
Their evening on the town started at the Stork Club in order to get that orthodox procedure out of the way. They drank a dry martini each and saw Walter Winchell’s very own table. “Like Dr. Johnson’s at the Cheshire Cheese,” said Sybil. Then, for a change of pace, they looked in at Tim Costello’s on Third Avenue and saw James Thurber’s very own drawings on the wall. “Like Tom Webster’s at the Falstaff,” said Sybil. They had dinner at a little French restaurant where they held hands and ate crêpes suzette. “Like Prunier’s,” said Sybil. Afterward there were night clubs; Larue, which reminded Sybil of Quaglino’s, and Leon and Eddie’s, which reminded her of the Palladium Crazy Gang, and finally Downtown Café Society. “What does this remind you of?” asked Tim, watching Meade Lux Lewis take a piano apart. “Nothing on earth,” said Sybil. “I thought not,” said Tim. “It’s supposed to be out of this world.”
At three in the morning, this bit of badinage sounded a great deal funnier than it would have at three in the afternoon. It even sounded funny to another couple standing next to them at the crowded bar and presently they were buying each other drinks. It seemed perfectly natural, as the boogie-woogie and the lights faded, for the other couple to suggest that they all go on together to the Breeze Club.
Tim looked dubious, but Sybil cried rapturously, “The Breeze Club! Why, even in London, we’ve heard of that. Something like the old Four Hundred.”
The other couple didn’t know anything about the old Four Hundred, but the Breeze Club was one swell place, they said. Open till noon.
“Don’t you have to be known to get in?” asked Tim.
Sure, but that was all right, the other couple was known. Next thing, the four of them were in a taxi, bowling north. It was a long ride to the Breeze Club, which was way uptown on the East River, and a damp and chilly ride as well. Tim felt himself growing soberer and soberer, not to mention sleepier, and the whole enterprise growing less and less attractive. Still, Sybil seemed to be enjoying herself enormously, and he decided he owed her all the fun that could be squeezed out of this one night. “Tim, darling,” said Sybil, “stop yawning.”
The Breeze Club was packed and confusing. Getting into it was confusing to begin with, because you entered at street level and then went down in a satin-lined elevator. The place got its name, presumably, from its site at the river’s edge, but there was no breeze in evidence just then. In fact, a breeze could hardly have fought its way
