"Maybe next year," she told him. A subtle rap came at the door’s mahogany paneling. Hotel staffers in white jackets and boutonnieres arrived with a rattling sandalwood pushcart. Oysters, shrimp, iced champagne. Greta left for the bedroom to change for dinner. The locals silently busied themselves at the linen table, lighting the candelabrum, opening the bottle, brimming the glasses. Oscar patiently escorted them back to the hall. Then he clicked off the light.