reproved him for his extravagance, but sipped her
wine with the air of a connoisseur.

"I couldn't help it," he said, smiling. "You know I've years of
parsimony and misery to make up for yet. This new life is so
delightful, and since you have come--well, I couldn't help celebrating.
Besides, you know, I'm earning quite a good deal of money, and I've
started the novel at last."

"Tell me about it," she begged, with sparkling eyes.

"Presently," he answered, "Eat your fish now, please. Over our coffee I
will tell you the first chapter. And what excuse have you for wearing a
new frock to dazzle the eyes of a lonely bachelor with?"

"Like it?" she asked, turning round on her chair towards him.

"Immensely."

"I made it myself," she said, continuing her dinner, "all since last
Thursday, too."

"Wonderful," he exclaimed, looking at her once more with admiration.
"You must be worn out. Let me fill your glass."

"Oh, I rather like dressmaking," she said. "Joan's disapprobation was
much more trying."

"And how is she?"

"Better, I believe, and inclined to be more sensible," she answered
cheerfully. "She has given up those horrid walks, and is thinking about
taking a situation. I can't tell you how grateful I am."

"So am I," he answered fervently.

They avoided, by mutual though unspoken consent, any further reference
to a subject so near akin to grave matters. She was satisfied with
Douglas's declaration of innocence--he was only anxious to forget his
whole past, and that chapter of it in special. So they passed on to
lighter subjects, discussed the people who entered and passed out,
praised the dinner and marvelled at its cheapness. They watched the
head waiter, with his little black imperial and beady eyes, a miracle of
suaveness, deftness, and light-footedness, one moment bowing before a
newcomer, his face wreathed with smiles, the next storming with
volubility absolutely indescribable at a tardy waiter, a moment later
gravely discussing the wine list with a _bon viveur_, and offering
confidential and wholly disinterested advice. It was all ordinary
enough perhaps, but a chapter out of real life. Their pleasure was
almost the pleasure of children.

Later she grew confidential.

"Douglas," she said, "I am going to tell you a secret."

"If there is anything I thoroughly enjoy after a good dinner," he
remarked, fishing an olive out of the dish, "it is a secret."

"You mustn't laugh."

"I'll be as sober as