She waited on the customers whose orders she had and then she moved over to the table where Robert Holton was sitting. He was very handsome, she thought. She looked at the others with him and she envied them all. They didn’t understand what he was, how important he was.
The girl with the blue eyes and slim legs she could not like. This was her rival—one of her rivals, anyway. She was glad that he never seemed particularly interested in this girl and, for that matter, the girl didn’t seem interested in him. Still she was near, worked with him probably: she was a danger.
Then Marjorie Ventusa did not like the dark-haired girl with the big nose who sat so close to him, but at least she was not a danger. She almost pitied this girl who had moved her chair so close to his that their legs were touching.
The other man was dull-looking and obviously interested in the girl with the blue eyes. Marjorie Ventusa wished him luck. Then, having thought these things about her customers, she walked over to their table.
“Ready for dessert?” asked Marjorie Ventusa cheerfully, trying not to look at Robert Holton.
They were ready.
Everyone decided to have vanilla ice cream. Slowly she cleared the table. This was a hard thing to do, because she had to act as if she were in a hurry.
They talked at the table as though she weren’t there. She was, naturally, used to that: she had been a waitress a long time, but today she was almost angry at being treated like a piece of furniture. She could do nothing about it, though. She picked up her tray and went into the kitchen.
Marjorie ordered the ice cream. As she waited she wondered if there was any way she could ever see Robert Holton in his other life: the mysterious important life he had in the brokerage firm. She tried to think of some way she could get to know him in this other life. She could think of nothing.
The ice cream was ready and she took it back to the dining room.