"I thought they only allowed married people to come, like this, in a private room."
"Oh!" he began—and the sudden perception that she had made this statement impartially added to his perplexity. "Well," he was able to answer, "we're as good as married, aren't we, Janet?" He leaned toward her, he put his hand on hers. "The manager here is an old friend of mine. He knows we're as good as married."
"Another old friend!" she queried. And the touch of humour, in spite of his taut nerves, delighted him.
"Yes, yes," he laughed, rather uproariously. "I've got 'em everywhere, as thick as landmarks."
"You seem to," she said.
"I hope you're hungry," he said.
"Not very," she replied. "It's all so strange—this day, Claude. It's like a fairy story, coming here to Boston in the snow, and this place, and—and being with you."
"You still love me?" he cried, getting up.
"You must know that I do," she answered simply, raising her face to his. And he stood gazing down into it, with an odd expression she had never seen before…. "What's the matter?" she asked.
"Nothing—nothing," he assured her, but continued to look at her. "You're so—so wonderful," he whispered, "I just can't believe it."