Noel raised his eyes heavenward, despairingly.
“For a woman who deemed the world well lost for love.…”
“I know,” interrupted Connie. “But you see Judy hasn’t my temperament.”
“I’ll refrain from saying ‘Thank God!’ because it’s your birthday,” returned Noel. “Here we are, and I bet I do justice to the lunch.”
They both did, and Connie had occasion to congratulate the head waiter on a very perfect Petite Marmite. She was always at her best in restaurants. She loved the crowds and the chatter and the music, and the feeling that she was being looked at, and was still worth looking at. There was even a secret hope in her heart that people would take Noel for her son. She liked to imagine them saying, “There’s a son who enjoys going about with his mother.” And Noel, who really liked Connie and pitied her, had hopes of knocking some sense into her foolish head in time. It touched him, too, that she depended on him so.
Two men came in and sat at a table at Connie’s left, and somewhat behind her. One was fat and old, with a round, coarse face. The other was at least impressive, and Noel found himself watching him. He had a dome-shaped head, rather flat at the back, and his hair, which began high up at the very summit of his temples was long and carefully brushed so as to fall slightly over the collar behind. A pair of level, frowning eyes looked out scornfully from under projecting brows, and the wide, thin lips protruded in a fierce pout. Presently, when something annoyed him, he spoke with great brusqueness to the waiter, scarcely moving his lips as he did so.
Connie heard his voice and turned, and their eyes met. Noel heard her draw in her breath sharply, and for a moment she sat staring, motionless. There was not the slightest change in the man’s expression, as he stared back at Connie. There was an empty seat at his table, and suddenly he raised a large hand with spade-shaped fingers, and beckoned.
Connie started up from her chair like an automaton, and would have gone to him, but Noel’s muscular hand closed on her wrist and fastened it to the table.
“Keep your seat!” he commanded. “Are you a dog to obey that man’s whistle? If he wants to talk to you, let him come here.”
Then as if ashamed of taking part in such an intense little drama, he dropped her hand and said lightly: