"She's a flute. She's a lark. She's a dream. I—I don't believe I seem to take it in."
"Nor—I."
Later, Zoe joined them, an air of assumed composure belied by the flaming brilliancy of her eyes and cheeks.
"Why didn't you come up afterward?" she said, forcing a commonplace, and to Bruce, "Hail a cab, Pretty-please."
He did, helping them in and poking his head in after.
"Where?"
"Anywhere. Let it be the Park for a while, Lilly?"
She nodded.
"Is three a crowd?"
For answer she drew him in by the sleeve and on the jouncing off of the cab was in her mother's arms, covering her cheeks with close-pressed, audible kisses, and, after the inexplicable manner of women, both of them crying.