Dick told Nicole an expurgated version of the catastrophe¹ in Rome — in his version he had gone philanthropically to the rescue of a drunken friend. He could trust Baby Warren to hold her tongue, since he had painted the disastrous³ effect of the truth upon Nicole. All this, however, was a low hurdle⁴ compared to the lingering effect of the episode upon him.

In reaction he took himself for an intensified⁵ beating in his work, so that Franz, trying to break with him, could find no basis on which to begin a disagreement. No friendship worth the name was ever destroyed in an hour without some painful flesh being torn — so Franz let himself believe with ever-increasing conviction that Dick travelled intellectually and emotionally at such a rate of speed that the vibrations⁶ jarred him — this was a contrast that had previously⁷ been considered a virtue⁸ in their relation. So, for the shoddiness of needs, are shoes made out of last year’s hide.

Yet it was May before Franz found an opportunity to insert the first wedge. Dick came into his office white and tired one noon and sat down, saying:

“Well, she’s gone.”

“She’s dead?”

“The heart quit.”

Dick sat exhausted⁹ in the chair nearest the door. During three nights he had remained with the scabbed anonymous¹⁰ woman-artist he had come to love, formally to portion out the adrenaline, but really to throw as much wan¹¹ light as he could into the darkness ahead.

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