He selected one of the lesser dining rooms where the formality of evening clothes was still the rule, but here and there a couple like themselves, in street attire. It was her first New York meal that was not read off a badly thumbed menu and eaten off thick-lipped china. A stringed orchestra played the Duo of Parsifal and Kundry, which was enough to set the blood rocking in her veins and some of its bombastic maternal passion to dye her face.
He ordered a man's dinner: Clear soup with croûtons. Long oysters on the half shell. A thick steak with potatoes deliciously concocted beneath a crust of cheese. Light wine. Ices in long glasses as slender as the neck of a crane. Turkish coffee brewed at the table over alcohol.
She sighed out finally, warm with well-being: "I didn't realize how deadly tired I was of just—grub. You see, it's the first time I've dined at a first-class place since I'm in New York."
"You don't mean that."
She nodded, smiling.
"I think I'm as surprised as you are. It's just one of the things that never occurred to me."
He regarded her for a long moment and without smile.
"You queer, queer girl."
"If anyone tells me that again, I'll begin to believe it is my inevitable epitaph."
"No epitaph is inevitable. It is what you write it."