They were waiting for him and incomplete without him. He was still the incalculable element; Miss Warren and the young Italian wore their anticipation as obviously as Nicole. The salon of the hotel, a room of fabled acoustics, was stripped for dancing but there was a small gallery of Englishwomen of a certain age, with neckbands, dyed hair and faces powdered pinkish gray; and of American women of a certain age, with snowy-white transformations, black dresses and lips of cherry red. Miss Warren and Marmora were at a corner table -- Nicole was diagonally across from them forty yards away, and as Dick arrived he heard her voice: "Can you hear me? I'm speaking naturally."

"Perfectly,"

"Hello, Doctor Diver."

…

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