They had been one evening to a musical comedy which by some fortunate chance was well written, well sung, and well done. And they were in excellent spirits as they left the theatre and stood waiting for his small limousine car, she in her pretty furs held close to her throat, humming under her breath a refrain from the delightful finale, he smoking a cigarette and watching the numbers being flashed for the long line of carriages and motors which moved up continually through the lamp-lit darkness.
"Athalie," he said, "suppose we side-step the Regina and try
Broadway. Are you in the humour for it?"
She laughed and her eyes sparkled in the electric glow: "Are you, Clive?"
"Yes, I am. I feel very devilish."
"So do I,—devilishly hungry."
"That's fine. Where shall we go?"
"The Café Arabesque?... The name sounds exciting."
"All right—" as his car drew up and the gold-capped porter opened the door;—so he directed his chauffeur to drive them to the Café Arabesque.
"If you don't like it," he added to Athalie, drawing the fur robe over her knees and his, "we can go somewhere else."