Rita snatched the book from his hand. "I don't want to hear any more," she said. "Let's go away, quick!"
In half an hour they were lunching at a little Italian restaurant which they found in the vicinity. The day was still dark and lowering, but a risotto Milanese and something which looked like prawns in polenta, but wasn't, restored them to themselves.
There was a wine list in this quite snug little place, but the proprietor advanced and explained that he had no license and that money must be paid in advance before the camerière could fetch what was required from an adjacent public house.
It was a bottle of whiskey that Gilbert ordered, politely placed upon the table by a pathetic little Genoese whose face was sallow as spaghetti and who was quite unconscious that for the moment the Fiend Alcohol had borrowed his poor personality.
. . . "You must have a whiskey and soda, Rita. I dare not let you attempt any of the wines from the public house at the corner."
"I've never tried it in my life. But I will now, out of curiosity. I'll taste what you are so far too fond of."
Rita did so. "Horrible stuff," she said. "It's just like medicine."
Gilbert had induced the pleasant numbness again. "You've said exactly what it is," he replied in a dreamy voice.—"'Medicine for a mind diseased.'"
They hardly conversed at all after that.
The little restaurant with its red plush seats against the wall, its mirrors and hanging electric lights, was cosy. They lingered long over their coffee and cigarettes. No one else was there and the proprietor sidled up to them and began to talk. He spoke in English at first, and then Gilbert answered him in French.