He received the news that his daughter was alone and free from
that fellow with something like delight. Where should he dine her? Mrs.
Markey was on her holiday. Why not Blafard's? Quiet---small rooms--not
too respectable--quite fairly cool--good things to eat. Yes; Blafard's!
When she drove up, he was ready in the doorway, his thin brown face
with its keen, half-veiled eyes the picture of composure, but feeling
at heart like a schoolboy off for an exeat. How pretty she was
looking--though pale from London--her dark eyes, her smile! And stepping
quickly to the cab, he said:
"No; I'm getting in--dining at Blafard's, Gyp--a night out!"
It gave him a thrill to walk into that little restaurant behind her; and
passing through its low red rooms to mark the diners turn and stare with
envy--taking him, perhaps, for a different sort of relation. He settled
her into a far corner by a window, where she could see the people and
be seen. He wanted her to be seen; while he himself turned to the world
only the short back wings of his glossy greyish hair. He had no
notion of being disturbed in his enjoyment by the sight of Hivites and
Amorites, or whatever they might be, lapping champagne and shining in
the heat. For, secretly, he was living not only in this evening but in
a certain evening of the past, when, in this very corner, he had dined
with her mother.
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