They went to an Italian restaurant, the Fiore d’Italia, up in the Latin quarter. It was a restaurant which was patronized nightly by the same guests; indeed, Dan, who had a weakness for some of the toothsome specialties of the house, had been a guest there about three times a month for years, and Mark Mellenger had been, with the exception of Thursday nights when he dined at Dan’s house, a nightly habitué of the Fiore d’Italia for fifteen years. Dan had a desire to bask for an hour in the light of Mellenger’s delightful but infrequent smile and had chosen to take Tamea to the Fiore d’Italia in the hope of seeing him there.
Mellenger was just rising from his table as they entered. He greeted them both cordially, but to Dan’s pressing invitation to sit and talk awhile he replied that he was much too busy at the office and hurried away. Scarcely had he gone when Grandpère, an ancient waiter who looked for his evening tip from Mark Mellenger as regularly as evening descended upon San Francisco, came in with an order of striped bass à la Mellenger. Dan and Tamea had seated themselves at the table vacated by Mellenger, and Grandpère stood a moment, blinking at the vacant chair. Then he glanced toward the peg upon which Mellenger’s wide soft hat always hung and, finding it gone, sighed and returned to the kitchen with the order.
“Why, Mel left without eating!” Dan exclaimed.
“Yes, he saw us first, dear one. He desired to spare himself the embarrassment of having to speak too much with me,” Tamea explained. “At Del Monte I told Mellengair some things he did not like.”
“Oh, Tamea, how could you? He is my dearest friend.”
She shrugged. “He told me things I did not like. We are even now. I think I should tell you that he will not come to your house again for dinner while I am there.”
Again Dan sighed. Things were closing in around him. He had lost an excellent housekeeper, his maid and his cook were in open revolt, his best man friend avoided him and his best woman friend had quarreled with him—and all over Tamea. The amazing part of it all was that he simply could not quarrel with Tamea. He could only adore her and strive to believe that it wasn’t adoration. Tamea, watching him narrowly, saw that he had surrendered to the situation and, as was his custom, he would forbear seeking the details of a situation repugnant to him. So she dipped a small radish in salt and handed it to him with the air of royalty conferring the accolade.
There was dancing to the music of an accordion played by an Italian. He was a genial man, with smiles for all the dancers, and very generous with his encores. Old patrons nodded to one another across the tables, there was much pleasant conversation and some noisy eating, for the Fiore d’Italia was a restaurant dedicated to food rather than the niceties of eating, and was patronized by democratic folk who held good food to be superior to table manners. The camaraderie of the place appealed to Tamea at once, and when presently the accordion player, between dances, commenced to play very softly “O Sole Mio,” and an Italian waiter who had almost attained grand opera paused with a stack of soiled dishes on his arm and sang it, Tamea was transported with delight.
“We will dance, no?” she pleaded brightly.
Dan would have preferred the bastinado, but—they danced. All eyes were on Tamea. Who was she? Where did she come from? That was Pritchard with her, was it not? Who was Pritchard? Zounds, that girl was a corker! How she could dance and how she loved it! A regular Bohemian, eh?