He noticed her animated face with secret pleasure.
“Tries to be,” laughed he. “Where’s the flea? Let’s hide him under my coat.”
Claire looked surprised, then nodded understanding.
“Oh, you mean Bébé!” She handed him the little dog laughingly. “Remember, if the flea bites, you mustn’t scratch!”
But the waiter was kind, and as the dining-room was almost empty, permitted the beastie a chair between them.
At lunch the gayety was somewhat forced. Claire ate as much as she could of the beefsteak and baked potatoes upon which the doctor insisted. (Her tentative order of chicken-pattie and tea had been vigorously pooh-poohed. Why did women persist in poisoning themselves?) But the food choked her as usual, and her pretense at appetite was only too transparent.
The man watched her beneath thoughtful brows. What sort of a brute could Petrovskey be to neglect a pathetic creature like that? He ought to be kicked. He, Robert Elliott, would like to do the kicking. These artists were all damned neurotics anyway. No healthy, red blood in ’em. He’d like to show him! Yes, by Jove, he’d like to—but what was the use of ranting around like a movie hero? The girl was evidently infatuated, and no amount of kicking, metaphorical or physical, would alter the fact. Meanwhile, her need of distraction and companionship was imperative. She was obviously suffering from an inferiority complex of long standing. A complex probably based on the small nothings which sometimes take so deep a root in sensitive natures. Perhaps with gayety and self-confidence and a knowledge of dress she might have held even the odious Petrovskey. But was such a man worth holding? And why did women cling so rapaciously to men like that? He shrugged mentally. (Anything so Continental as a physical shrug would have been impossible for Robert Elliott).
Claire made a feeble effort to talk. One must be polite to one’s host. But she was wondering if she should not offer to pay for her own lunch. She did not know how to broach the subject without hurting Dr. Elliott’s feelings. He looked so young, she was sure he must be poor. Young doctors were always poor, and equally sensitive.
“Are you a New York man?” she inquired diffidently.
He shook his head.