"All right.
Then I have to go." She got out the bottle from the armoire and brought a glass.
"You take the glass," I said. "I'll drink out of the bottle."
"Here's to you," said Miss Gage.
"What did Van Campen say about me sleeping late in the mornings?"
"She just jawed about it.
She calls you our privileged patient."
"To hell with her."
"She isn't mean," Miss Gage said. "She's just old and cranky.
She never liked you."
"No."
"Well, I do.
And I'm your friend.
Don't forget that."
"You're awfully damned nice."
"No.
I know who you think is nice. But I'm your friend.
How does your leg feel?"
"Fine."
"I'll bring some cold mineral water to pour over it.
It must itch under the cast.
It's hot outside."
"You're awful nice."
"Does it itch much?"
"No.
It's fine."
"I'll fix those sandbags better." She leaned over. "I'm your friend."
"I know you are."
"No you don't.
But you will some day."
Catherine Barkley took three nights off night duty and then she came back on again.
It was as though we met again after each of us had been away on a long journey.
18
We had a lovely time that summer.
When I could go out we rode in a carriage in the park.
I remember the carriage, the horse going slowly, and up ahead the back of the driver with his varnished high hat, and Catherine Barkley sitting beside me.
If we let our hands touch, just the side of my hand touching hers, we were excited.
Afterward when I could get around on crutches we went to dinner at Biffi's or the Gran Italia and sat at the tables outside on the floor of the galleria.
The waiters came in and out and there were people going by and candles with shades on the tablecloths and after we decided that we liked the Gran Italia best, George, the headwaiter, saved us a table.
He was a fine waiter and we let him order the meal while we looked at the people, and the great galleria in the dusk, and each other.
We drank dry white capri iced in a bucket; although we tried many of the other wines, fresa, barbera and the sweet white wines.
They had no wine waiter because of the war and George would smile ashamedly when I asked about wines like fresa.
"If you imagine a country that makes a wine because it tastes like strawberries," he said.
"Why shouldn't it?" Catherine asked. "It sounds splendid."
"You try it, lady," said George, "if you want to. But let me bring a little bottle of margaux for the Tenente."
"I'll try it too, George."
"Sir, I can't recommend you to.
It doesn't even taste like strawberries."
"It might," said Catherine. "It would be wonderful if it did."
"I'll bring it," said George, "and when the lady is satisfied I'll take it away."