"We'll celebrate anyway, Dutch. Make it Max's."
He didn't prolong the argument. They had long before made a compact that the expenses of their expeditions should be shared.
"I suppose," he inquired, "your six thirty really means seven. I've an appointment, might keep me till then, unless——"
"I'll meet you on the stroke of half-past," she said, and was as good as her word.
They had snails à la Max, whereof the frame is finer than the picture, as well as Maxian frogs' legs, boned and wrapped in lettuce leaves, and, not without misgivings, a bottle of claret.
Stevens, unaware that it was their last time of pretending, abided by the rules. They talked shop and shows and vacations. Georgia slipped in a few appropriate words concerning her cultural progress. They were both somewhat severe upon the orchestra, because there was too much noise to the music, so Mason beckoned the head waiter and "requested" the barcarole from Tales of Hoffman, and they floated off in it toward the edge of what they knew.
It is said that most people have at least two personalities. In this respect Georgia was like them. One side of her was the woman of 1850, and the times previous; whether mother, wife, daughter, maiden or mistress, primarily something in relation to man, her individuality submerged in this relationship, as a soldier's individuality is submerged in his uniform.
The other aspect of Georgia's nature was that of the "new woman," the women hoped for in 1950. Bold, determined, taught to think, relentless in defense of her own personality, insistent that men shall have less and she shall have more sexual freedom, she is first of all herself and only next to that, something to a man.
When the woman of 1850 managed to get in a word about Jim and his fruitless wait at home, the woman of 1950 answered, "Shall you now be absurd enough to leave the man you love for one you hate?"
"Shall we take in a show?" he suggested when they had finished their coffee.