Half-way through the meal, the man in the white dinner-jacket wandered in. He seemed to be known. People nodded to him as he stalked between the tables. He passed close to us, and gave Clair a long penetrating stare. She avoided his eyes. I scowled at him, but he didn’t notice. He sat a couple of tables away from us, waved to the waiter, ordered a Rye straight. He lit a cigarette, settled down to stare at Clair.
“I think I’ll drop over and talk to that masher,” I said, suddenly very angry.
Clair gripped my arm. “No, darling, don’t. It’ll spoil everything, and I’m having a lovely time. Please, let’s forget him. I don’t mind.”
She began talking about the restaurant idea, but neither of us had much heart for it now. She was worried, and I was getting madder every moment.
Then suddenly I saw her stiffen. I followed the direction of her eyes. Lydia Hamilton had just entered. She swept down the aisle between the tables before the captain of waiters could escort her, arrived at the table occupied by the man in the white dinner-jacket, sat down. He glanced at her in a bored way, waved to the waiter.
“Now, perhaps we’ll have rest from that guy,” I said. “I’m sorry to see that dame here, but she won’t spoil my dinner.”
The waiter served the broiled steak. It looked very good. For a while we ate. Then I looked up suddenly. The masher was at it again. His half-closed eyes were probing Clair—X-ray eyes.
I looked at Lydia Hamilton. She was on to him. Her face was hard, furious.
“We’re going to have some trouble,” I said to Clair in an undertone. “That dame’s crazy enough to start anything.” I thought it best to warn her.
The words were scarcely out of my mouth when Lydia smacked the man in the white dinnerjacket across his face. He wasn’t expecting anything like that, and he nearly fell off his chair. The sound of the smack cracked through the big dining-room. There was a sudden hush, then Lydia’s strident voice shrilled, “Take your eyes off that whore.”