"No, we won't do that to-night. We'll go out somewhere to a restaurant."
Their eyes met—unwavering.
"Yes," she said, "that's what we'll do."
They didn't talk much across the table in the deserted little Italian restaurant they went to. Neither of them afterward could remember anything they'd said. They ate their meal in a sort of grave contented happiness that was reaching down deeper and deeper into them every minute, and they walked back to the gray brick building in Thirteenth Street, arm in arm, hand in hand, in silence. But when she stopped there, he said:
"Let's walk a little farther, Rose. There are things we've got to decide, and—and I'm not going in with you again to-night."
She caught her breath at that, and her hand tightened its hold on his. But she walked on with him.
He said, presently, "You understand, don't you?"
She answered, "Oh, my dear!—yes." But she added, a little shakily, "I wish we had a magic-carpet right here, that we could fly home on."
Then they walked a while in silence.
At last he said: "There's this we can do. I can go back to my hotel to-night, and tell them that I'm expecting you—that I'm expecting my wife to join me there. To-morrow? And then I can come and get you and bring you there. It's not home, and it's not the place I'd choose for—for a honeymoon, but ..."