They nibbled radishes by candlelight, ate carrots Julienne.
Jill poured steaming coffee into delicate blue cups, added sugar and cream.
She had "ordered" sweet potatoes and baked Virginia ham, he had "ordered" steak and French fries.
As they dined, the juke box pulsed softly in the ghostly room and the candle flames flickered in drafts that came through invisible crevices in the walls.
When they finished eating, Farrell went into the bar and brought back a bottle of champagne and two glasses.
After filling both glasses, he touched his to hers.
"To the first day we met," he said, and they drank.
Afterward, they danced on the empty dance floor.
Jill was a summer wind in his arms.
"Are you a professional dancer?" he asked.
"I was."
He was silent.
The music was dream-like, unreal.
The big room was a place of soft lights and pale shadows.
"I was an artist," he went on presently.
"One of the kind whose paintings no one buys and who keep themselves going on scraps of hopes and crusts of dreams.
When I first began to paint, I thought that what I was doing was somehow noble and worthwhile; but a schoolboy conviction can't last forever, and finally I recognized and accepted the fact that nothing I would ever paint would justify my having gone without even so much as a single helping of mashed potatoes. But that's not why I'm on the River."
"I danced in night clubs," Jill said.
"Not nice dances, but I was not a stripper."
"Were you married?"
"No. Were you?"
"Only to my work, and my work and I have been divorced for some time now.
Ever since I took a job designing greeting cards."
"It's funny," she said, "I never thought it would be like this.
Dying, I mean.
Whenever I pictured myself on the River, I pictured myself on it alone."
"So did I," Farrell said. And then, "Where did you live, Jill?"
"In Rapids City."
"Why, that's where I lived too.
Maybe that has something to do with our meeting each other in this strange land.
I—I wish I had known you before."
"You know me now. And I know you."
"Yes. It's better than never having gotten to know each other at all."
They danced in silence for a while.
The inn dreamed around them.
Outside, beneath stars that had no right to be, the River flowed, dark-brown and brooding in the night.
At length, when the waltz to which they were dancing came to an end, Jill said,
"I think we should call it a day, don't you?"
"Yes," Farrell said, looking down into her eyes,
"I suppose we should."
And then, "I'll wake at dawn—I know I will.
Will you?"
She nodded.
"That's part of it, too—waking at dawn.
That, and listening for the falls."
He kissed her.
She stood immobile for a moment, then drew away.
"Good night," she said, and hurried from the room.
"Good night," he called after her.
He stood in the suddenly empty room for some time.