thinking of the impression
she was making on others.

But she was certainly looking very handsome.

She put on a fur. They got into the cab and drove to Soho.

Craven had ordered the table in the window to be reserved for them. The
restaurant was fairly, but not quite, full. The musicians were in their
accustomed places looking very Italian. The lustrous _padrona_ smiled a
greeting to them from her counter. Their bright-eyed waitress hurried up
and welcomed them in Italian. Vesuvius erupted at them from the walls.
There was a cozy warmth in the unpretentious room, an atmosphere of
careless intimacy and good fellowship.

"Let me take off your fur!"

She slipped out of it, and he hung it up on a hook among hats and coats
which looked as if they could never have anything to do with it.

"I'll sit with my back to the window," she said. She sat down, and he
sat on her left facing the entrance.

Then the menu was brought, and they began to consult about what they
would eat. She did not care what it was, but she pretended to care very
much. To do that was part of the game. If only she could think of all
this as a game, could take it lightly, merrily! She resolved to make a
strong effort to conquer the underlying melancholy which had accompanied
her into this new friendship, and which she could not shake off. It came
from a lost battle, from a silent and great defeat. She was afraid of
it, for it was black and profound beyond all plumbing. Often in her ten
years of retirement she had felt melancholy. But this was a new sort of
sadness. There was an acrid edge to it. It had the peculiar and subtle
terror of a grief that was not caused only by events, but also, and
specially, by something within herself.

"Gnocchi--we must have gnocchi!"

"Oh, yes."

"But wait, though! There are ravioli! It would hardly do to have both, I
suppose, would it?"

"No; they are too much alike."

"Then which shall we have?"

She was going to say, "I don't mind!" but remembered her role and said:

"Please, ravioli for me."

And she believed that she said it with gusto, as if she really did care.

"For me too!" said Craven.

And he went on considering and asking, with his dark head bent over the
menu and his blue eyes fixed upon it.

"There! That ought to be a nice dinner!" he said, at last. "And for wine
Chianti, I suppose?"

"Yes, Chianti Rosso," she answered, with the definiteness, she hoped, of
the epicure.

This small fuss