He felt the pulses beating in his throat. He bent over the menu card, but even this did not protect him. Again the unreality of a nightmare smote him. This time he was naked and horribly embarrassed at his improper predicament. He sensed the woman examining him as she examined the others, with a detached and curious smile of appraisal.
These were his sensations, various, confused, terrifying. As though there were eyes in the top of his neatly brushed head, he saw all this happening. What he did not see, what he could not have known were the thoughts of the woman—that she watched him, that she saw the throbbing vein in his throat stand out suddenly and knew well enough its meaning. By the aid of that agitated vein she saw, with a sophistication beyond his wildest imaginings, in this mild little drummer a man of a sensual, passionate nature. The thing which amused her was a speculation, absurd to be sure, but none the less clear. She wondered whether this little man knew himself, whether he had ever been aroused.
“Chops,” Clarence found himself writing on the check. “Chops. Mashed potatoes. Lima beans. Coffee.”
Then the sound of a voice reached him, warm, low, insinuating. “I advise you against the chops. They are atrocious. I was forced to send them back and order something else.”
The woman had spoken to him of her own accord and his suspicions arose in sudden array, bristling and fully armed. Yet he knew that he must answer. Heroically he looked up and asked,
“What do you advise?”
“The roast beef is very good....”
Though he detested it, he wrote down roast beef and then straightened in his chair, pulling at his collar and cravat. For the life of him, he could find nothing to say. It was impossible to overcome that fragile, invisible barrier.
“Don’t think me impertinent,” she said, “for speaking ... but I’m almost bored to death.... I hate traveling.... I’d like always to stay in one spot.”
For an instant he suspected the faintest trace of a foreign accent in her voice, though he could not be certain.