"Jean, I'm coming straight round this table and kiss you."
"No, don't."
But he was already there beside her, and under pretext of adjusting the curtain, kissed her quickly. Jean wanted to strike him. Then he was back in his own place, talking again. All the first joy of his success rushed over him. Jean felt it, the hidden power that she had fanned with her belief and love. It was burning away her own forces and Jean felt cold.
They had a second serving of tea. The rooms emptied. Gregory was still talking, rushing away beyond her reach.
It was almost seven when she threw her crumpled napkin on the table and rose.
"I've simply got to go. Besides we could never get it all talked out, if we stayed until midnight."
"I know. I feel like a kid parading his bag of tricks. I believe I've been standing on my head for the last hour. Have I, Jean?" He was near, helping her on with her coat. His fingers touched her cheek. "Why didn't you set me right end up with a thump?"
"Oh, I adore small boys on their heads. I—I always want to do it, too." Jean wondered why he did not grip her shoulders and shake her back to consciousness, but he only laughed and they went out, past the groups of pretty waitresses resting now in the empty room.
It had turned warmer and snow was falling in great white flakes.
"I believe I'll walk. I'm not going home to dinner anyhow." Her courage was gone. She could not go down into that stifling Subway, talk nothings above the roar of the train, feel Gregory close among all those strangers.