But how would you like to be a girl nineteen years old in love with a man over fifty years old that you knew was going to die?''
''You put it a little bluntly,'' the Colonel said. ''But you are very beautiful when you say it.''
''I never cry,'' the girl said. ''Never.
I made a rule not to.
But I would cry now.''
''Don't cry,'' the Colonel said. ''I'm gentle now and the hell with the rest of it.''
''Say once again that you love me.''
''I love you and I love you and I love you.''
''Will you do your best not to die?''
''Yes.''
''What did the doctor say?''
''So-so.''
''Not worse?''
''No,'' he lied.
''Then let us have another Martini,'' the girl said. ''You know I never drank a Martini until we met.''
''I know.
But you drink them awfully well.''
''Shouldn't you take the medicine?''
''Yes,'' the Colonel said. ''I should take the medicine.''
''May I give it to you?''
''Yes,'' the Colonel said. ''You may give it to me.''
They continued to sit at the table in the corner and some people went out, and others came in.
The Colonel felt a little dizzy from the medicine and he let it ride.
That's the way it always is, he thought. To hell with it.
He saw the girl watching him and he smiled at her.
It was an old smile that he had been using for fifty years, ever since he first smiled, and it was still as sound as your grandfather's Purdey shot-gun.
I guess my older brother has that, he thought.
Well, he could always shoot better than I could and he deserves it.
''Listen, daughter,'' he said. ''Don't be sorry for me.''
''I'm not.
Not at all.
I just love you.''
''It isn't much of a trade is it?'' He said oficio instead of trade, because they spoke Spanish together too, when they left French, and when they did not wish to speak English before other people.
Spanish is a rough language, the Colonel thought, rougher than a corncob sometimes.
But you can say what you mean in it and make it stick.
''Es un oficio bastante malo,'' he repeated, ''loving me.''
''Yes.
But it is the only one I have.''
''Don't you write any more poetry?''
''It was young girl poetry.
Like young girl painting.
Everyone is talented at a certain age.''
At what age do you become old in this country, the Colonel thought. No one is ever old in Venice, but they grow up very fast.
I grew up very rapidly in the Veneto myself, and I was never as old as I was at twenty-one.
''How is your mother?'' he asked, lovingly.
''She is very well.
She does not receive and she sees almost no one because of her sorrow.''
''Do you think she would mind if we had a baby?''
''I don't know.
She is very intelligent, you know.