With her cloak thrown back carelessly on the chair, leaning forward with bare elbows on the table, her black hair tousled about her curiously slanting temples, her blouse askew over one shoulder, she was indeed very much a child. And he felt like a child too, and rejoiced in her as a careless and happy playfellow.
“Let’s start,” she said, ignoring the menu, “with all the different kinds of little fishes.”
“Good. And—” he consulted the menu—“a filet mignon?”
She nodded. “And petit pois?... And then what? Some kind of salad, I suppose.”
“One of the things you keep pulling apart all evening.”
“Yes—what are they called? Artichoke. With Hollandaise sauce. And what kind of cocktail?” he asked.
“The one that has a dash of electricity in it.”
“A Daiquerai!” he affirmed.
“Right.”
“Well, that will do to begin with.—Oh, yes, wine.”