They entered the subway, they rode, they came up. They stepped from a bright street into a bright long room—facetted in white round cloths and mirrors. The two chairs held them across the white space of their table.
“Shall I order?” said Clara. “I’ll order. Her eyes, deep and many colored like a pansy’s black, felt the lean blade of Fanny’s poverty: caressed it, bled against it. She ordered
Oysters
Broiled chicken with asparagus, sweet potatoes, peas
ice-cream and cake
and coffee.
“I’m so happy!” she said, her eyes flooding out upon the face of Fanny. “I am so glad we have met at last!”
—She asks me no question of myself. Not that she fears lest I ask questions of her. She wants that. Your eyes and your lips so finely cut, so frozen in their revolt ... how long ago was that?... ask: I should ask of yourself. I cannot. Let me sit here, Clara, quiet. The food, O the good food! Let me sit here in your eyes. I cannot give you that which my asking of you would mean. I cannot. There is a little openness between us ... our separate years. In it I breathe. If you cover it with your coming close, I shall choke.
“We are going to a show,” said Clara. “Which show shall it be?”
“I have seen no play for so long! How should I know?”
“I’ll choose.”
She called the waiter. “Bring me an evening paper.”
—So strong and sure of herself! I am weak beside you.... Am I better than you?