“Nothing sweet,” she warned him.
“A Sauterne, then?”
“That will be nice,” she said.
He gave the order, and when he had finished turned to her. “You know,” he said, “it always makes me feel reckless to order wine. I’m always sure that I’m not going to have enough left to tip the waiter.”
“I’m glad you feel that way,” she said. “It’s no fun to dine with people who are blasé about ordering wine—unless you can feel wickedly extravagant about it, you might just as well drink water. The thrill is all in the idea, anyway. I think wine is a much overrated institution—so far as its effects go.... I ordered a liqueur once, a beautiful purple thing I had just discovered—I forget the name of it; I ordered it, not to drink, but just to look at—and when the man I was dining with called my attention to my neglect, and I explained, he was outraged!... But I wish they would bring the little fishes—I shan’t neglect them.”
“It’s nice,” he said, “to be able to think and talk about things that don’t matter.”
“Such as what?”
“Such as little fishes, and poetry. I’ve been so dreadfully serious-minded for a long time.—Is Gregory going to put on ‘The Land of Heart’s Desire’?”
“He hasn’t decided. If he does—”
“If he does, you must play Mary. It won’t be Yeats’s Mary, but it will be something very exciting, if you play it.”