Terence and his inamorata stroll among the foliage, in a fantastical sort of garden. The university grounds are peculiar; there are places here that try to imitate Oxford or Paris, and sometimes a flash of moonlight on a carven doorway, black shadow in gothic lace, makes me think I am there—though those places are blackened with time now, or with industrial soot. Then there are other places, as here near the greenhouses, that do not mistake themselves; we are in practical America, glass and steel, broken up a bit by lawns and foliage, oak and maple, that are scarcely a century old.
She doesn’t talk much, but I hear her breathing, and smell the rush of blood under the skin. Not intolerably difficult to concentrate, though I must have a snack soon…
… And there are two or three rowdies, bravos we would have called them in my day, all setting out from a noisy party—drunk.
I do not like having that stuff in my blood, but I have promised Terence.
Luckily one of them peeled off from the others, and went his own way, and I got a sip or two. I judged him not as drunk as the other two, and that was good, because I truly hate the taste of that stuff.