The couple took seats at a table, the cynosure of all eyes. Every head turned in their direction, conversations were temporarily suspended and there was much whispering and craning of necks, to get a glimpse of the young woman whose reputation, or lack of it, was already so notorious. Far from being embarrassed at this display of public interest, Laura seemed to enjoy the attention she excited. Languidly sinking into her seat, she said to her escort with a smile:
"Don't they stare? You'd think they had never seen a woman before."
Brockton laughed as he lit a fresh cigar.
"How do you know they're staring at you? I'm not such a bad looker myself."
Laura ran over the menu to see what there was to tempt her appetite.
"Bring me some lobster," she said to the waiter.
"And a bottle of wine—Moet and Chandon white seal," broke in Brockton, "frappé—you understand, and make it a rush order. I have to get away in a few minutes."
Laura pursed her delicately chiseled lips together in a pout. She liked to do that on every possible occasion, because, having practiced it at home before the mirror, she thought it looked cunning.
"You're surely going to give yourself time to eat a bite, aren't you?" she cried in affected dismay.
The broker looked at his watch.