an intent look of spite in her eyes.
Puzzled, George glanced at the man sitting at the table. He was a slender blond with a complexion like peaches and cream, and big, soft eyes like a deer. He was wearing apple- green trousers, very neat, with pleats at the waist; and his coat was fawn colour.
George turned to Cora. She wasn't looking at the blond man in the corner any longer, but at him. There was that odd expression in her eyes that made George feel like a strange exhibit in a zoo.
The waiter brought the two martinis.
'Here's how,' George said. 'I've been looking forward to this no end.'
She glanced at him, and her lips smiled, but her eyes still remained sulky. They drank. George was surprised at the 'kick' the martini had.
'These are jolly good, aren't they?' he went on, still too nervous to begin a real conversation.
'They're all right,' she said, and again her eyes strayed to the blond man across the room.
This won't do at all, George thought. Why does she keep looking at that horror over the way? She couldn't he interested in that type, surely? Why, anyone with half an eye could see he was a cissy. Perhaps she was just bored. Anyway, he couldn't let her attention wander like this.
'I've been worrying about you,' he said leaning towards her. 'Did you get into trouble for staying out all night?'
'Trouble?' Her eyebrows went up. 'You talk as if I'm a child. I can stay out all night if I want to.'
Baffled, George sipped his martini. Not quite the same idea that Sydney had conveyed. He glanced at her thoughtfully.
'From what Sydney said . . .'
'Oh, don't listen to him. He's always bragging about how he treats me. I go my way, and he goes his.'
George was sure she was lying, but there was no point in telling her so.
'Well, I worried because I wondered if I should have kept 'phoning. I didn't want to get you into trouble.'
'I wish you wouldn't keep 'phoning,' she said shortly. 'Old Harris doesn't like it.'
Before he could say anything further, the waiter brought the oysters. When he had gone, George Muttered, 'I wanted to speak to you. You said it was all right to 'phone.'
'Oh, don't nag!' she said sharply, and forked an oyster into her mouth.
There was no doubt she was in a foul temper. Or was she nervous about something? George studied her. She did look tired and jumpy. There was also an uneasy expression in her eyes.
'What are you staring at?' she demanded, looking up and catching his eyes on her face.
'You,' George said simply. He felt an overwhelming love for her suddenly well up inside him 'What's wrong, Cora? Is there anything I can do to help?'
'Wrong, what should be wrong?'
'You look nervous . . .'
'Do I?' she suddenly laughed. 'I'm in a foul temper, that's all.'
He could see the tremendous effort she was making to sound natural. It began to worry him There was something on her mind:something she was anxious that he should know nothing about.
'I got up late,' she went on. 'Everything's gone wrong today.' She finished her cocktail just as the waiter came with the two bottles of wine. He drew the corks and filled their glasses. 'I feel like getting tight tonight,' she went on.
George was still not satisfied. 'Are you sure there isn't something else?'
'Of course not!' she said, the waspish note hack in her voice. 'It's just that it's been a hell of a day, and I'm tired.'
'Well, never mind,' George said, certain now that there was something on her mind. 'The wine will make you feel better.'
And he began to talk to her about the only subject he was really competent to talk about—crime in America. He didn't want to talk to her about that. He would much rather have talked of his love for her, and even to confide in her that all his stories of violence and adventure were figments of his imagination, and that he was only a simple type of fellow, but very much in love with her. But she was so unsympathetic and hard and nervous that he knew it would be inviting disaster to be sentimental. So he told her more fictitious stories of his adventures in America. He had been reading a lot lately, and was well primed with material. She seemed to welcome these stories, probably because she didn't wish to talk herself. While he talked, she smoked incessantly. The ashtray was piled high with cigarette butts, smeared with lipstick. She had scarcely touched her meal, but she had drunk a good deal of the sour red wine. When George asked her if she felt all right, as she had made such a poor dinner, she said abruptly that it was too hot to eat. Remembering that the first words she had greeted him with were, 'Come on, I'm hungry', George shrugged hopelessly. Her moods defeated him.
But she listened to his tales of crime, sitting still, with her chin in her cupped hands, her eyes expressionless.
George soon became engrossed in his own stories, and when the lights in the restaurant began to go out, he realized with a start of surprise that it was half past eleven and he was a little drunk. The restaurant was empty now, except for the blond man at the table opposite, the Hebrew barman, the fat woman at the desk and the waiter who had looked after them.
'We'd better be going, I suppose,' he said regretfully. 'I'm afraid I've been doing all the talking again. I hope I —haven't bored you.'
