"What is that?"
"Part of a sailor's paraphernalia."
"It is not over yet?" with sudden suspicion.
"No. There are a few threads that need picking up."
The metal in his voice did not escape her. She was puzzled, for, logically, all his land adventures should be over.
It was only a short distance to the restaurant, which was a famous one.
She selected it tactfully, solely on his account. She herself had never been inside of it before in the evening. But she knew a good deal about men, that even so nice a one as this fresh-skinned, blue-eyed sailorman would not object to having his vanity played up to. There was another kind of thought besides in her mind. The night would be far more memorable if there was a background of color and movement and music. She was weak enough to want him always to remember this night.
The moment she took off her veil and coat she was recognized. That is the penalty of theatrical fame in New York. The head waiter passed the word, and the people at the near-by tables stared and whispered; and Mathison wouldn't have been human if he had not expanded a little under this patent interest in his lovely companion.
How was he to know that the gown she wore had been donned expressly for him? How was he to know that it had been sent for after the arrival of the flowers, or that she had worried all through the performance for fear her mother would send the wrong one, or that it might reach the theater too late?