"Don't let's go to the Rezzonico," she said, quickly. "Let's go somewhere quiet."
As a result, they turned eastward, into the region of the smaller restaurants, and looked at several before Sally picked one called "Le Chat Blanc." It seemed to her to be the quietest and cleanest they had seen, and at any rate it would be a new experience to dine there. The doorway was modest, and the windows curtained low enough (in a red and white check) to permit a glimpse of the small but shining interior. Within, all was grey and white. Sally led the way into the place, and to a remote table, and seated herself with an air of confidence remarkable in one who dined, as it were, for the third time only. She glanced at the two waitresses—both very dark girls with earrings, who wore their black hair coiffed high upon their heads. They were Italians, agreeable and inquisitive; and the food-smells also were Italian and full flavoured. As soon as the two were seated they became the property of one of the two waitresses, who stood over them so maternally that she seemed to have no desire but for their good-fortune in choosing the meal aright. She plunged both Sally and Gaga into a muddle by her persuasive translations of the menu, but she made up for her linguistic deficiencies by this anxious interest and by a capricious smile. Scared and curious, they looked round the plain grey walls of the clean little room, and at the four or five other people who sat near them, and at the ceiling, and at each other.
"It's funny!" whispered Sally, exultingly. "Never seen anything like it."
"I.... I've never seen one ... so ... so clean," stammered Gaga.
Near them a conceited young man with a hard voice and small eyes was talking impressively to an untidy-looking girl in green with a mauve chiffon scarf. While he talked, the girl smoked his cigarettes, and interjected remarks of superior quality. Sally heard her say "Ah," in sign of agreement, and once "Oh, yes, of course Flaubert...."
"What's Flaubert?" she asked Gaga. He appeared startled.
"Er ... I don't know," he answered. "What put it into your head?"
"That girl said it. Listen." They listened. The young man was arguing about something. He was arguing about something of which neither Sally nor Gaga could discover the purport. Sally said: "They're both woolly. Woolly-wits, they are. Both got maggots. What's 'art,' anyway? Pitchers? And all that about values?"
Gaga was buried. He had a sudden inspiration.
"Don't listen to them," he said. "It's something they ... they understand."