She didn’t smile, shook her head, looked away. “Promise you won’t make a scene?” she whispered.
“I never make scenes,” I said. “What’s wrong?”
“There’s a man over the way who hasn’t taken his eyes off me since he came in,” she said. “He’s making me uncomfortable. Now, please …”
I looked across the room, located a man in a white dinner-jacket sitting on his own. He had grey hair. There was nothing unusual about his heavy handsome face except a small puckered scar on his left check that had almost the effect of a dimple.
I gave him the hard eye, and he immediately looked away.
“Well, anyway,” I said, putting down my empty glass, “it’s time we had something to eat. If he really bothers you I’ll talk to him.”
“You’re not to,” she said, walking across the bar at my side. “Those days are over.”
The barman bowed to her as we left. She gave him a nice smile. I was very proud of her.
The captain of waiters personally conducted us to our seats. The table he had reserved for us was on the edge of the dance floor. I noticed a number of the men diners looked at Clair. She was worth looking at.
We sat down. The antipasto was fine. There were salty anchovies bedded on a firm slice of tomato; scarlet peppers soaked in white vinegar; thin bologna sausages; fat white shrimps; transparent slices of ham, and celery stuffed with cottage cheese. We had two large dry martinis to go with it.