'Are we? Why?'
'Can you drive ten miles? Can the Ark go ten miles?'
'Why, sure it can,' she said gaily. 'I don't see why not.'
'Then we are going out for dinner—to a restaurant I know. Out on the highway. Oh, you'll like it.'
'But why?'
'To celebrate.' He was mysterious.
'Celebrate what, Kenneth?'
'It's a secret,' he said. 'I may tell you tomorrow.' 'What on earth are you talking about?' 'Never mind,' he said shyly.' He almost hated to share his very miracle—even with her.
In the evening of the next day (which was a Friday), the ancient car proceeded noisily out upon the highway, west of town. It rode high and old-fashioned, in a gait that was both stately and lumbering, like a stout matron who nevertheless has her dignity. Rosemary, in a new white dress with a splash of red roses on the bodice, with a big soft red wool scarf tied around the top of her, drove them without seeming to try too hard. She is equal to this, thought Mr. Gibson with pride, because she is well. And there is no doubt about it.
Mr. Gibson had gone so far as to reserve a table, for this little restaurant was very popular, both on account of its fine French cooking and its atmosphere, which was dim and smoky and smelled deliciously of sauces. It wasn't cheap either. But this was a celebration.
They drank a little wine. They ate hugely of one delectable dish after another, and Mr. Gibson teased by refusing to explain the reason for the reckless expense of this expedition. It was delightful to be together in the midst of the smoke and the savory smells and the soft buzz of other people's conversations. Mr. Gibson knew he was preening himself. He knew that Rosemary was, too. As if they were actors or masqueraders, and out of themselves and yet being themselves in a freer truer way. He couldn't help feeling on the suave side, and a bit of a gay dog. He enjoyed it. Rosemary looked as if she felt that she was rather lovely. And so she was, he decided.
At dessert time, they had a drop of brandy with their coffee. Then without warning these two people-of-the- world fell into a fit of childlike hilarity.
Just something he said, a turn of a phrase.
And Rosemary capped it.
And he extended it.
And they were off. The whole thing spiraled up. It got funnier and funnier. They were behaving like a pair of maniacs. Mr. Gibson laughed so hard he had to retreat behind his napkin. He felt himself aching. Rosemary had her hands to the red roses printed on her bodice as if she
were aching too. They rocked together. Their heads bumped. This was an absolute riot. They shushed each other, faces red, eyes wet, and beaming, and daring each other.
People turned mildly worried faces to look at them, and this was the funniest thing they'd ever seen. And sent them off again. Nothing on earth had ever been so funny. But never could they explain why to sinyone else. Which was extremely funny in itself.
Now people were smiling by contagion and staring with real curiosity. So they controlled themselves and made their mouths stiff and sipped brandy. Rosemary thought of one more word and said it and off they went, careening on laughter right off the earth to some other place.
It took quite a while to simmer down. But at last, just as suddenly, the little sadness fell. It was over. They mustn't try to start it up again. No. Force nothing. Sit, with the sweet contentment in their throats,' the after-taste of laughter that lies so kindly on the very membranes like a salve.
'When will you tell me what we are celebrating?' asked Rosemary gravely.
'I'll tell you now.' He lifted the last drop of his brandy. 'We are celebrating you. Because you are well again.'
Her eyes filled with tears. She didn't answer.
He said quietly, 'Well, it's late. I suppose we should
go.'
'Yes.' She fished the red wool thing from behind her. She seemed to be trembling. The waiter pulled the table away and they rose, moving slowly, as if still entranced, still sweetly remembering the food and the fun. He took the soft wide stole and held it, and she turned her back, and he folded it around her. He wanted to tuck it close around her throat, wanted her safe and warm. He couldn't help it that his hands were tender. Rosemary bent her head, and for one quick wonderful stunning moment she pressed the warm skin of her cheek caressingly upon the bare skin of his hand.
It was only a moment. It changed the whole world.
Mr. Gibson followed her to the little lobby and opened the door which the proprietor was helping to open (saying good night, saying that a bit of a fog had come up, suggesting caution). Mr. Gibson may have replied mechanically. He was absolutely stunned.
He had just discovered that he was in love with his wife Rosemary, twenty-three years his junior—but that didn't matter. Why, he was crazy about her! Now he understood what they meant by 'in love.' In love... in love ... in love!
They stepped out into a place .of strangest beauty— not like the world at all. A heavy fog but oh, how beautiful!
Rosemary stepj>ed back to rest a moment against him. Their two bodies were all that was left of the old world and all that mattered. Everywhere, veils fell. Across the road, the fields drowsed and drowned.
'Would you rather I drove?' he asked her.
'No, no,' she said. 'I understand the poor old Ark. Oh, Kenneth, isn't it beautiful!'
