A young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her. She smiled and started for the stairs without reply. ‘And just who is Leonardo?’ ‘How in God’s name should I know?’ demanded Roding irascibly. He could not understand how men could live ignoring this one predominant interest, this wonderful research into personality and the possibilities of pleasing, these complex, fascinating expeditions that began in interest and mounted to the supremest, most passionate intimacy. A wedding procession turned the corner. The sun was setting when she carried the metal garbage can to the curb with their remains in it, where they sat underneath the stale chocolate cake that Sheila had thrown away and a pile of mildewy lettuce.
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