Hotel

"Oh, I'm brimming with both. You want facts? "Look at the roof." Their eyes went up together. "You'll see it overhangs the upper gallery. The Louisiana-Greek style - most old big houses here were built that way - makes sense because in this climate it gave shade and air. Lots of times the gallery was the most lived-in place. It became a family center, a place of talk and sharing."

He quoted, "Households and families, a sharing of the good life, in a form at once complete and self-sufficient."

"Who said that?"

"Aristotle."

Marsha nodded. "He'd big galleries." She stopped, considering. "My father did a lot of restoration. The house is better now, but not our use of it."

"You must love all this very much."

"I hate it," Marsha said. "I've hated this place as long as I remember."

He looked at her inquiringly.

"Oh, I wouldn't if I came to see it - as a visitor, lined up with others who'd paid fifty cents to be shown around, the way we open the house for Spring Fiesta. I'd admire it because I love old things. But not to live with always, especially alone and after dark."

He reminded her, "It's getting dark now."

"I know," she said. "But you're here. That makes it different."

They had begun to return across the lawn. For the first time he was conscious of the quiet.

"Won't your other guests be missing you?"

She glanced sideways, mischievously. "What other guests?"

"You told me .."

"I said I was giving a dinner party; so I am. For you. If it's chaperonage you're worried about, Anna's here." They had passed into the house. It was shadowy and cool, with ceilings high above. In the background a small elderly woman in black silk nodded, smiling. "I told Anna about you," Marsha said, " and she approves. My father trusts her absolutely, so everything's all right. Then there's Ben."

A Negro manservant followed them, soft footed, to a small booklined study. From a sideboard he brought a tray with decanter and sherry glasses. Marsha shook her head. Peter accepted a sherry and sipped it thoughtfully. From a settee Marsha motioned him to sit beside her.

He isked, "You spend a lot of time alone here?"

"My father comes home between trips. It's just that the trips get longer and the time between shorter. What I'd prefer to live in is an ugly modern bungalow. Just so long as it was alive."

"I wonder if you really would."

"I know I would," Marsha said firmly. "If I shared it with someone I really cared about. Or maybe a hotel would be as good. Don't hotel managers get an apartment to live in - at the top of their hotel?"

Startled, he looked up to find her smiling.

A moment later the manservant announced quietly that dinner was served.

In an adjoining room a small circular table was set for two. Candlelight gleamed on the dinner setting and paneled walls. Above a black marble mantel the portrait of a sternfaced patriarch gazed down, giving Peter an impression of being studied critically.

"Don't let great-grandfather bother you," Marsha said when they were seated. "It's me he's frowning at. You see, he once wrote in his diary that he wanted to found a dynasty and I'm his last forlorn hope."

They chatted through dinner - with lessening restraintas the manservant served them unobtrusively. The fare was exquisite - the main course a superbly seasoned Jambalaya, followed by a delicately flavored Creme Brulee. In a situation he had approached with misgiving, Peter discovered he was enjoying himself genuinely. Marsha seemed more vivacious and charming as the minutes passed, and he himself more relaxed in her company.

Which was less than surprising, he reminded himself, since the gap in their ages was by no means great. And in the glow of candlelight, the old room shadowed around them, he was reminded how exceedingly beautiful she was.

He wondered if long ago the French nobleman who built the great house, and his mistress, had dined as intimately here. Or was the thought the product of a spell which the surroundings and the occasion had cast on him?

At the end of dinner Marsha said, "We'll have coffee on the gallery."

He held out her chair and she got up quickly, impulsively taking his arm as she had earlier. Amused, he allowed himself to be guided to a hallway and up a broad curving staircase. At the top, a wide corridor, its frescoed walls dimly lighted, led to the open gallery they had viewed from the now darkened garden below Demitasse cups and a silver coffee service were on a wicker table. A flickering gas lantern burned above. They took their coffee to a cushioned porch glider which swung lazily as they sat down. The nighttime air was comfortably cool, with the faintest stirring of a breeze. From the garden, the hum of insects sounded sonorously; the muted sounds of traffic came over from St. Charles Avenue, two blocks distant. He was conscious of Marsha, quite still beside him.

Peter chided, "You've suddenly become quiet."

"I know. I was wondering how to say something."

"You might try directly. It often works."