A waiter brought her coffee. Her companion examined her closely, admiring her dainty hands, her clear eyes, her wealth of golden hair.
“Do you know me?” he asked.
“No: I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.”
“Well, you must call me Onias. And I would like to call you by a pretty French name I know—Lucette. Do you like your name, Lucette?”
“Yes, I think I do. But do you think it suits me?”
“Yes. It is dainty and so are you. And it is pretty and innocent, and I think you are pretty and innocent also.”
“But, Onias!” she objected. “That doesn’t suit you at all. Onias ought to be fat and shapeless, with marks of grease on his waistcoat.”
He laughed, pleased that she could talk as well as look pretty.
“But,” he said, “Onias is my real name. Still, I’m glad I don’t live up to it.”
“You’re nicer than Onias,” she said, and as she spoke, she suddenly felt afraid of her glibness. She had forced herself to forget her husband for these hours, but without warning their little bedroom was before her eyes. She shivered.