“Crushed!” McCall slapped him on the back. “That’s the luckiest thing in the world for you. Why, you’re still young. You know, you’ll be a long time married. I thought that I was the only sensible person left.”
“What do you mean—only sensible person?”
“You know what I told you about Levin and Miss Meadows.”
“Levin. Dorothy!”
“Sure, at the Press Club, that first day. No, by George, I was called away before I had a chance. You know they met in France. It’s one of those war romances. He a doctor and she a nurse in the same hospital. Of course, it’s not a regular engagement. His father is orthodox and—”
McCall’s voice went on. Robert heard it in snatches. He remembered Dorothy speaking about religious tolerance, about intermarriage. No, that would make no difference with her. And Levin, too. His mouth felt dry. He was talking at random? “Yes—Splendid girl—Beautiful—Nice chap—”
They drifted down to Washington street and into a little restaurant. Robert noticed the name—Ye Pot and Kettle—painted under a picture of a large, old-fashioned pot, on the window.
“Thought it would be a little quieter here,” McCall was saying.
“Yes.” He looked at the menu. A waitress was proclaiming the merits of the day’s specialties. He ordered something. He was conscious of a buzz of voices and the sound of plates and cutlery.
“What’s the matter? You look pale.” McCall leaned forward, his face anxious. “Aren’t you hungry? Better take some coffee. It’ll do you good.”