Nick was. He had gone without lunch in order to have enough money for tea.
“You ought to be, at your age,” he said.
“It isn’t age that makes you hungry,” said Rosaleen. “It’s what you’ve had for lunch.”
Nick said no more, but took her by the arm. And was surprised and shocked to feel how fragile an arm it was. He determined that she should eat a great deal.
He stopped near the door to reclaim their umbrellas, and they went out together into the chilly and misty twilight. The crowds on Fifth Avenue jostled them, but Nick, tall and grim, held his umbrella high over Rosaleen’s head, and led her to the quiet little tea room he had selected.
“Now, then!” he said, when they were seated opposite each other at a small table, and tea and waffles and honey had been ordered. And he began.
He told her first of all what was expected of a young girl:
By the world in general.
By men.
By himself.