“No, it’ll be for a digestive. I’m the doctor. We’ll go out for a short walk now for an appetizer, please. I know what’s best for you.”
She went to get her coat and hat, obediently. Lang had planned to take her to the largest hotel restaurant in the city, with the masculine idea of cheering her, but at the sight of the great dining room, tricked with palms, crammed with Michigan tourists, deafening with the shriek and clash of a jazz orchestra, she turned in horror and begged to go to another place. Discomfited, Lang led her in search of quiet, and after long wandering, they came into a little, rather shabby, unfrequented eating place on Royal Street.
Here was quiet at any rate. It was growing late and not another table was occupied. They had a wholesome, vulgar meal, fairly cooked, badly served, and Lang saw to it that his companion ate. He also ate, being again surprisingly hungry, but he refused to tell his story till they had almost finished.
Then, over a cup of coffee, he lighted a cigarette, and recounted Carroll’s revelations, which he had come more and more disposed to consider a work of imagination.
Eva listened with the utmost attention, but without comment. She did not display quite the surprise that he expected; and at the end she fixed her eyes upon him and asked:
“What do you think of it?”
“I don’t believe it. The question really is, what’s under it? For it’s obviously designed to conceal something else, like Carroll’s first romance of Rockett and the yacht.”
Eva appeared to ponder, looking down at the spotted tablecloth.
“That story is all true,” she said at last.
“What? You think so?”