They had driven down the coast from San Francisco on a whim and located what seemed to Ruth to be the most expensive inn between Carmel and Big Sur. The owner was a delightful man, an elegant old Austrian; “A Jew of the old school,” Wayne said knowledgeably, as if he had any idea what that meant. Almost ninety now, the innkeeper had known Freud in Vienna. He had known Wittgenstein. “A very sad man, Wittgenstein,” he said.
Wayne tipped him tremendously; Wayne tipped almost everyone tremendously, lavishing money everywhere. It made Ruth nervous, though it smoothed things out in the most extraordinary way. The innkeeper tried to carry their bags to their room, but Wayne wouldn’t have it — he gave the man another five dollars just to leave them alone.
