She sighed with appeasement; and her glance returned to embrace the room at large. “What a glittering spectacle!”
“Im-hym,” said Wilfred. “Glittering’s the word. Slightly unreal. Because they’re all on parade. How wonderful if one could see a crowd of people really letting themselves out.”
“But where could one see such a thing?”
“I don’t know. . . . Once I saw a festa in an Italian street here. Little side street up-town. They had arches thrown across the roadway, decorated with colored lamps. And all the people’s faces wore a look of escape. They were swarming in and out of their church. . . .”
“Look, Wilfred, here’s a distinguished-looking pair coming in.”
Wilfred turned around in his chair—and very quickly straightened again. Confusion came striding into his contented mind, swinging a scythe. “Lord!” he said in an uncertain voice, “it’s Joe Kaplan and his wife. I hope to God they don’t see us!”
She glanced at him sharply. “They’re coming this way,” she remarked.
Wilfred looked down. “My back is toward them. They don’t know you.”
“So that is what she’s like!” murmured Fanny.
“Fortunately there is no vacant table near us,” muttered Wilfred.