They were in the street, her hand steadying him. They found a dim restaurant with a counter and a few tables. He did not speak until the waiter came; then asked for coffee. Pidge had taken the money and thrust it into his coat pocket. Now she was tormented with the fear that he would lose the small roll, not knowing that he had it. She had not brought her own purse. He would be forced to pay; then he would have to see what he had.
He drank the coffee first, then ate sparingly.
“I learned that in the desert,” he said at last.
“Learned what, please?”
“Not to go mad over the taste of food when one has been without.”
The girl who waited on the table looked devotedly into Melton’s profile as she served. Twice as he started to speak, the Sixth Avenue elevated crashed by outside and he seemed to forget what he meant to say. It seemed more true here in the restaurant than it had been in the house in Harrow Street, that he was wonderfully good to look upon. The realization held a small tumult for Pidge. She was altogether different with him than with any one else. They had finished, and still he lingered.
“I’m sorry. I hadn’t intended to come out. I left my bag upstairs. Will you please pay?”
To his illness, a look of embarrassment was now added.
“It’s in your pocket. Right there——”
She pointed to his coat, and he drew out the bills wonderingly.