She wavered; and he instantly took advantage of her irresolution by taking her arm.
“Please!” he said. “It’s Saturday, the one day I don’t have to hurry.”
And, so afraid was he of any silence between them, that he began to talk about nothing; about how he had come up to Tiffany’s from his office, to see about a watch he was having repaired. About how fine the weather was for March, and how lively Fifth Avenue looked, and so on, until they were outside the little restaurant he had decided upon.
“I can’t, Mr. Landry! I look too—awful!”
“Rosaleen, you couldn’t look awful. And if I don’t mind, I don’t believe anyone else will complain.”
She followed him to a corner table and sat down, confused and embarrassed, opposite him. She was so conscious of her bare hands, her carelessly dressed hair. He ordered a substantial lunch, and then leaned across the table, to look at her.
“You’re much thinner,” he said. “Why? You don’t look well!”
“I’m all right,” she said. “How are you?”
“I’m not all right,” he answered. “I’ve never been all right since I was fool enough to let you go.”
“Oh, no!” she said, with a bitter little smile. “Don’t pretend you’ve been thinking of me all the time. I know better!”