“Everything except me,” she repeated dreamily, “and I forget everything except you. I feel just like Cinderella must have done when she met the prince, only this is all real, real, all real. Now, come along; you’re a man, and—dinner is ready. Come, give me your arm and lead your hostess in.”
The dining table was plainly but daintily furnished; pretty flowers, simple china, cheap green German glass, a homely dinner, light Rhine wine, red and white, good coffee, mellow liqueurs. There was nothing to remind him of the garish restaurant life they had been leading, no touch of meretriciousness or hint of sham.
When the servant left them, Marian drew her chair close to his, filled his glass and her own.
“Have you no toast to propose?” she asked.
“Yes, but no wine in the world is good enough to drink it in, dear. You—you!”
“I’ve a better toast—and it’s the wish, not the wine, that counts—We. We!”
“You’re right! We! Though I should be nothing without you. We!”
They clinked glasses and drank.
“How nice and quiet it is here!” she said. “Just you and I, and all the rest of the world shut out. I wonder——”
“What?”