She raised her cocktail. “Here’s to our play!”
They drank.
“Now,” he said, a little embarrassedly, “I feel that I shall have to write that play!”
She put her hand on his for a moment. “Don’t feel that,” she said. “I know—people dream of things and ... don’t do them. I shan’t hold you to account. But it’s a lovely dream—and that’s what I’m drinking to.”
“But wouldn’t you rather have the play than the dream?” he asked.
“I don’t know.... By the time you wrote it—I would be interested in something else, and you would want another girl to do it. Why should we bother with promises? We’re not that kind.... If I said I loved you—and I could say that right now—I always love people who think of lovely things, and that play was a lovely thing to think of—why, I wouldn’t expect you to hold me to account for it ... later.”
“Do you love me?” he asked, in a casual tone.
“Yes.... Here are the fishes!... Of course I do. You are a terribly nice person. You love me, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Felix.
The waiter went away, and she laughed. “That was a test,” she said. “A man who can talk about love in the presence of the waiter without looking awkward—! But I meant it, too.... These are good, aren’t they?”