Canada wasn't much fun. I was very happy when I landed again in New York, and at once I thought, 'I will telephone to Philip.' I was invited that same day to a cocktail party where I would see most of my friends; from my window, I looked out upon a vast landscape of skyscrapers. But all that was no longer enough for me. I went down to the bar of the hotel; in the blue-black light, a pianist was softly playing languorous melodies, couples were whispering together, and waiters were walking on tiptoe. I ordered a martini and lit a cigarette; my heart was palpitating. What I was about to do wasn't very sensible: after a week with Philip, I surely wouldn't be able to leave him without having serious regrets. Well, too bad! First of all, I wanted him; and as for the regrets, I'd have them anyhow. I already had them. The Queensboro Bridge, Central Park, Washington Square, the East River - in a week, I would no longer see them either, and all in all I'd rather miss a person than stones; that would be far less painful, it seemed to me. I took a sip of the martini. One week - too short for new discoveries, too short for pleasures without tomorrows. I no longer wanted to wander about in New York as a tourist; I had to live, really live in that city. That way, it would become a little mine and, in turn, I would leave something of myself in it. I had to walk in the streets holding the arm of a man who, provisionally at least, would be mine. I emptied my glass. Once during that trip a man had held my arm. It was winter and I was finding it difficult to walk on the icy pavement, but near him I felt warmth. 'Come back,' he had said. 'I don't want to think that I'm not going to see you again.' And I wouldn't go back; I'd hold another arm tightly against mine. For a moment I felt guilty of treason. But there was no question about it: it was Philip I had wanted all through a long night. I still wanted him and was awaiting my call. I got up, went into a telephone booth, and asked for Hartford.