Jim's was an oyster and chop emporium of ancient fame in the Village. They sat at a rear table. The place was empty save for an old waiter who shuffled through the sprinkling of sawdust on the floor, and a fat grandson of the original Jim who stood by the open grill that was set in the wall at the rear end of the oyster bar.
Over the tea Peter said, expanding now—“Perhaps this is reason enough for you to tell me who you are.”
“Perhaps what is?”
He smilingly passed the toast.
She took a slice, and considered it.
“You see,” he went on, “if I am not to know, how on earth am I to manage seeing you again?”
She slowly inclined her head. “That's just it.”
It was Peter's turn to knit his brow's.
“How can I be sure that I want you to see me again?”
He waved an exasperated hand. “Then why are we here?”