“For me too!” said Craven.
And he went on considering and asking, with his dark head bent over the menu and his blue eyes fixed upon it.
“There! That ought to be a nice dinner!” he said, at last. “And for wine Chianti, I suppose?”
“Yes, Chianti Rosso,” she answered, with the definiteness, she hoped, of the epicure.
This small fuss about what they were going to eat marked for her the severing difference between Craven’s mental attitude at this moment and hers. For him this little dinner was merely a pleasant way of spending a casual evening in the company of one who was kind to him, whom he found sympathetic, whom he admired probably as a striking representative of an era that was past, the Edwardian era. For her it was an event full of torment and joy. The joy came from being alone with him. But she was tortured by yearnings which he knew nothing of. He was able to give himself out to her naturally. She was obliged to hold herself in, to conceal the horrible fact that she was obsessed by him, that she was longing to commit sacrifices for him, to take him as her exclusive possession, to surround him with love and worship. He wanted from her what she was apparently giving him and nothing more. She wanted from him all that he was not giving her and would never give her. The dinner would be a tranquil pleasure for him, and a quivering torture for her, mingled with some moments of forgetfulness in which she would have a brief illusion of happiness. She made the comparison and thought with despair of the unevenness of Fate. Meanwhile she was smiling and praising the vegetable soup sprinkled with Parmesan cheese.
One of the musicians came up to their table, and inquired whether the signora would like any special thing played. Lady Sellingworth shook her head. She was afraid of their songs of the South, and dared not choose one.
“Anything you like!” she said.
“They are all much the same,” she added to Craven.
“But I thought you were so fond of the songs of Naples and the Bay. Don’t you remember that first evening when—”
“Yes, I remember,” she interrupted him, almost sharply. “But still these songs are really all very much alike. They all express the same sort of thing—Neapolitan desires.”