“What an elaborately led-up-to compliment!” Marian said, laughing consciously. “How often has it done duty? Do you pay it to everyone who dines with you here?”
“Not—quite everyone,” replied Geraldstein, who behind his exterior heaviness hid a diplomatic readiness, which was sometimes near akin to wit. “No, I haven’t used it for a long time. Not since I met you.”
“Not since you met me?”
“No, for you’ve altered my standard of perfection.”
“That’s very nice, but perhaps that’s been said before too?”
“I don’t remember saying it to anyone else. But are you quite fair? If I didn’t do homage you would think me a fool, and when I do you call me a frivol. It’s not much of a choice for a fellow, is it? Ah! Happy interlude! Coffee. Goldoni’s coffee, and Goldoni’s fine champagne, I give you no choice. And a cigarette? It is allowed.”
Marian leaned back in her chair, supremely content; lazily happy, idly watching the other diners, satisfied with herself, kindly disposed even to her host.
“I hope you don’t mind my not having asked anyone else,” he said after a while. “I knew how much more I should enjoy myself this way, and—I’m nothing if not selfish. Have you enjoyed yourself?”
“Need you ask? Can’t you see?” she replied, looking at him with half-closed eyes. “It seems like a dream—don’t wake me from it.”
“Don’t let us wake from it till—to-morrow.”