"Only in books and plays dreams come true," he told her. "And villains are vanquished."
"And what dream do you wish to come true?"
"A dream—a rather silly, hopeless, golden sort of dream—a dream of meeting you again."
Once more he could have bitten off his tongue. Now she would think him a maudlin flirt. He looked to the ground and saw his dusty, worn shoes. He was afraid to hear her speak, afraid to look up. At last he did, expecting to find her gone. But she was there, looking at him as she had when he told her she was beautiful, the same hint of incredulousness in her eyes.
"Don't say you're sorry," she said softly. "I'd like to think you meant it."
They were silent. He saw the man in the wicker chair rise, toss aside his cigarette and come toward them, slowly. They waited, without speaking, until he reached their table.
His eyes met Gibson's steadily for two tense seconds. Then he saw Gibson turn from him to the girl as if he was not there.
"Consuello," Gibson said.
She rose.