They found a table in the well-appointed railroad restaurant and ordered. Over her honey-dew melon Io asked musingly:
“What do you suppose she thinks of us?”
“Miss Camilla? What should she think?”
“What, indeed? What do we think, ourselves?”
“Has it any importance?” he asked gloomily.
“And that’s rather rude,” she chided. “Anything that I think should, by courtesy, be regarded as important.... Ban, how often have we seen each other?”
“Since I came to New York, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Nine times.”
“So many? And how much have we talked together? All told; in time, I mean.”