"Romano's."
"Romano's let it be. I've a cab here, waiting." He handed her in, jumped in after her, and slammed the door, with a feeling that for an hour at least he had left his troubles outside.
"How are you?" he asked. "What have you been doing since I saw you last? And didn't you ever expect to see me again?"
Her eyes, in the dimness, looked very deep.
"I knew I should," she answered murmurously.
The inimitable atmosphere of Romano's loosened his tongue. After she had ordered supper, with every whit of the appetite and extravagance which he remembered as her chief characteristic, next to her beauty, and after each had been stimulated by a cocktail, he was conscious that he wanted to confide in her, not so much because she was Roselle, but because she was a woman, would look soft and listen prettily. He wanted stroking gently, patting on the back, and reassuring about himself.
The slight moodiness of his expression set her suggesting confidences. "You've got a pretty bad hump," she said caressingly. "What is it? Has the car slumped? Won't they have it? Or is it indigestion? You're not what you were when—"
She gave a quick sigh and smile, very inviting.
"When we were touring about Canada and the States together," he finished. "Well, you see; when a man has come back to all he left behind him—"
"Did you leave much behind you?"