CHAPTER IX
They took their supper in a near-by oyster house, invaded by a chattering throng, drummed over by an indefatigable orchestra. She had looked forward keenly to the tête-à-tête. She was terribly disillusioned. It was not at all exciting. Conversation was impossible, and what they said was meaningless. She became irritable and restless, for she had a feeling that she was being defrauded—that this man was not like the rest, that he was one worth knowing, drawing out, an adversary who would compel her to utilize all the light volatile artillery of her audacious imagination.
"Listen," she broke out suddenly, "this is a horrible failure. I really want to talk to you! Have you seen enough of the rehearsal?"
"Plenty!"
"Let's cut it, then!"
"Madame Quichy would never forgive me!"
She was silent a moment, rebuffed.
"I'm out of sorts. You can at least take me home!"
"Certainly!"
Arrived at the house, she said reluctantly: