"The cord is frayed, the cruse is dry,
The link must break, and the lamp must die—
Good-bye to hope! Good-bye, good-bye!"
I told Royal I didn't like it, it was too much like Cassandra.
He laughed and said she generally sings it, but that it couldn't hurt us—was I superstitious?
"No, oh, no," I declared. But I wished I could forget the words of that song.
Some of the party decided that a proper ending to the delightful evening would be a visit to a fashionable café. I didn't care to go. Royal urged me till I consented and I soon found myself in a beautiful place where merry groups of people were seated about small tables. Any desire for food I might have had left me as I heard Royal and the other men order wines and highballs.
"What will you have, Phœbe?" Royal asked me.
I gasped—"Why—nothing."
"Be a sport," he urged, "look around and do as the 'Romans do.'"
I looked around. Some of the women were smoking, others were drinking.
"Oh," I said, "this is dreadful. Let's go."