“I’ll sit with my back to the window,” she said. She sat down, and he sat on her left facing the entrance.
Then the menu was brought, and they began to consult about what they would eat. She did not care what it was, but she pretended to care very much. To do that was part of the game. If only she could think of all this as a game, could take it lightly, merrily! She resolved to make a strong effort to conquer the underlying melancholy which had accompanied her into this new friendship, and which she could not shake off. It came from a lost battle, from a silent and great defeat. She was afraid of it, for it was black and profound beyond all plumbing. Often in her ten years of retirement she had felt melancholy. But this was a new sort of sadness. There was an acrid edge to it. It had the peculiar and subtle terror of a grief that was not caused only by events, but also, and specially, by something within herself.
“Gnocchi—we must have gnocchi!”
“Oh, yes.”
“But wait, though! There are ravioli! It would hardly do to have both, I suppose, would it?”
“No; they are too much alike.”
“Then which shall we have?”
She was going to say, “I don’t mind!” but remembered her role and said:
“Please, ravioli for me.”
And she believed that she said it with gusto, as if she really did care.