"The crest of your car, the earmuffs on most your staff at the Bank and the fact that you seem to think a woman's opinion nothing more than a trifle. There's a beginning," Orison said. "What's wrong with earmuffs?" Dink demanded. "Everybody wears earmuffs." "Not everybody," Orison said. "Not in April. Not bank officials. Not indoors, in any case." "Must report this to the Board," Dink said, taking a notebook from his pocket and scribbling. "Must find alternative. No earmuffs indoors." Perfect, Orison thought, near tears. He's perfect. He'd sit astride that milk-white charger like a round-table knight, sturdy and lean and honest-eyed. Dink is perfect, she thought, except only that he's insane. Dink tucked his notebook back into his vest-pocket. "If I were a foreigner," he asked, "would it make any difference to you?" "Your nationality should concern me as little as my diet concerns you," Orison said. "You said _should_," Dink pointed out. "That means that you are concerned with me. Therefore, I will formally invite you to marry me." He held up his hand as Orison began to speak. "I warn you, Orison, there are only two answers possible to my proposal. Only _Yes_ or _Some day_." "What if I said no?" Orison asked. "I'd interpret it as Some day," he said, and smiled. "You know nothing about me," Orison protested. "But I do," Dink said. "I know you're good. I know that you've fallen half in love with me, and I entirely in love with you, in this half-day in April that we've known each other." "No," Orison said, gripping tightly the edge of the table. "That means, Some day," he said. The lobster arrived in post-mortem splendor, borne on a silver tray, brick-red, garnished with sprigs of parsley and geranium, served with the silver instruments designed for his dissection and the bowl of baptismal butter. "Oh ..." Orison said, turning her eyes away from the supper she'd selected. "It's horrible!" "You've no appetite for lobster?" Dink asked. "I'd as soon eat boiled baby," Orison said, pressing her napkin against her lips. "Take it away," Dink instructed the waiter. "The lady will have the same order as I." The crustacean, red but undismembered, was again borne aloft by the waiter to be returned to the scene of his martyrdom. "Try a little of the wine, Orison," Dink suggested, tipping a splash of the Riesling into her glass. "It will clear your head." * * * * * She sipped. "It helps," she admitted. "What do you suppose happened to me, Dink? It's as though all of a sudden I'd become allergic to lobster." "In a sense you are, darling," Dink said. "Such a strange thing," she said.