the four or five other people who sat near them, and at the
ceiling, and at each other.

"It's funny!" whispered Sally, exultingly. "Never seen anything like
it."

"I.... I've never seen one ... so ... so clean," stammered Gaga.

Near them a conceited young man with a hard voice and small eyes was
talking impressively to an untidy-looking girl in green with a mauve
chiffon scarf. While he talked, the girl smoked his cigarettes, and
interjected remarks of superior quality. Sally heard her say "Ah," in
sign of agreement, and once "Oh, yes, of course Flaubert...."

"What's Flaubert?" she asked Gaga. He appeared startled.

"Er ... I don't know," he answered. "What put it into your head?"

"That girl said it. Listen." They listened. The young man was arguing
about something. He was arguing about something of which neither Sally
nor Gaga could discover the purport. Sally said: "They're both woolly.
Woolly-wits, they are. Both got maggots. What's 'art,' anyway? Pitchers?
And all that about values?"

Gaga was buried. He had a sudden inspiration.

"Don't listen to them," he said. "It's something they ... they
understand."

"I bet they don't," remarked Sally. "You don't talk about things you
understand."

"Well, let's talk about what _we_ don't understand...." He was
beseeching in his tone, and his soft eyes glowed. The waitress
approached, bearing two large plates piled high with spaghetti.

"Golly!" ejaculated Sally. "Howjer eat it? Fingers?"

They had little time to talk while they were engaged with the capers of
this surprising food; but when both were tired of playing with the
spaghetti they turned their attention to the straw-covered bottle of
Chianti which had been brought. Sally made a wry mouth at her first
venture. She had yet to learn that the wine was heavier than any she had
yet drunk. She strained her ears to catch more of what the
fascinatingly conceited young man was saying about his inexhaustible
topic. Good-looking boy, if he cut his hair and shaved his moustache
off. She saw Gaga look anxiously and wonderingly across at her, with a
kind of hunger; and she was shaken by a mischievous notion. She had
never done such a thing before, but she put her foot forward so that it
touched one of his, and smiled right into Gaga's chocolate eyes. The
slow red crept up under his skin, and they had no need to talk. Sally
was laughing to herself, and eating some beautifully cooked veal, and
she knew that Gaga was