In the restaurant many diners had gone; many, lingering, thought of going; waiters hovered near ready to hand bills, and empty liqueur glasses and coffee cups, and ash trays, and the dead ends of cigarettes lay under the rose lights on all the tables. Osborn had drunk a benedictine and smoked a cigar appreciatively; Marie had begun to think, reluctantly, yet clingingly, maternally, of her babies in the pink room at home. She lifted her furs from the chair back, and a waiter hurried to adjust the stole over her shoulders.
"Sorry," said Osborn, going through the slight motion of attempting to rise from his chair; "I should have done that."
"Never mind, dear," she answered.
Then he paid the bill, got into his own coat, and they walked out. As they went, he asked: "Well, old girl, have you really enjoyed it?"
"It was lovely. Thank you so much!"
"Sure it was the sort of birthday present you wanted?"
"Absolutely the one and only thing, Osborn."
"Happy young woman!" He took her arm and squeezed it.
"Cab, sir?" the commissionaire asked.
"We're walking, thanks."