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able to smile politely, and Jerry had accused her later of a lack of warmth. Perhaps he had been right. There was nothing wrong with people who didn’t have much money making ends meet and being proud of it. There was nothing wrong with people who couldn’t afford taxis.
    She burrowed her head into Jerry’s shoulder and felt him put his arm firmly around her waist. “Hey—what’s with you?”
    â€œI’m such a snob, Jerry,” she whispered. “I’m such an awful snob, I can’t stand it.”
    â€œIt’s one of your crazy moods,” he said.
    â€œIt’s not a mood, it’s the way I am. I’m a snob.”
    He laughed uncertainly.
    â€œYou shouldn’t have brought me down here,” she said. “This part of the city always kills me. It’s all made of money. I don’t mean money in the bank, but money like Henry James people had it, money so you could be really cool and never have to worry about carfare.”
    â€œI’ve got twenty dollars in my pocket right now,” he said. “And I don’t care if I get rid of all of it. How’s that for coolness?”
    â€œI wish you wouldn’t spend it on me, Jerry.”
    â€œLook,” he said, “I’m taking you out. I want us to have an evening. It’s the end of exams and we’re celebrating. Is there anything wrong with that?”
    â€œNo. I guess not.”
    He was holding her hand very tightly. “Hey,” he murmured. “Hey there.” It was his evening too. He was entitled to it. She tried to smile at him reassuringly.
    The sky was growing paler, and the sun made great red shadows on the empty buildings. It was all so quiet. The elevators had stopped, and the typewriters and the telephones, yet she felt a thousand faces watching her from the darkness behind the windows. In two more weeks every street would be a street she didn’t know. She was suddenly glad Jerry was with her; she moved closer to him. But when he began to kiss her, she could not shut her eyes.

CHAPTER FOUR
    T HE WOMEN WERE all so sleek. They are the adults, Susan thought, looking with wonder at their impeccably sheathed bodies, their bare, slender arms faintly tan a month before summer. She listened to their soft laughter and saw how easily the men leaned toward them across the little tables. “A great place,” Jerry had said an hour ago, as the waiter led them across the thick carpeting to a table from which they could see everything. Thinking guiltily that what she saw was beautiful, she had found herself perversely saying, “I wonder why they’ve turned out all the lights,” which was such a childish remark—not cool, not sleek—but she was determined not to be impressed. Restaurants were not beautiful. And she knew that the people were not really great—they put their coiffures up in curlers, worried about their charge accounts, had their feelings hurt, and were probably having dull conversations—still she wished she were completely taken in. Life was simpler for people like Jerry; they said what they meant, and they walked into strange places as themselves and said it, not wanting to be anyone else. They would always be tourists, carrying their cameras to cathedrals, staring at the natives with delight and open curiosity, half blind perhaps, but doggedly proud of their own identities. They were probably quite comfortable that way—they did not see the world as a magnificent party to which they had not been invited. And there was a certain dignity in being a tourist, if you never tried to be anything else, if you did not even dress yourself up in appropriate costumes. The black dress did not make her sleek; she was betrayed by the wisps of hair that clung to her forehead, the slight wrinkle in her left stocking, the smudge of soot across her wrist, the tightness of her lips, and by her consciousness of it all. She was a