Then the menu was brought, and they began to consult about what they would eat. She did not care what it was, but she pretended to care very much. To do that was part of the game. If only she could think of all this as a game, could take it lightly, merrily! She resolved to make a strong effort to conquer the underlying melancholy which had accompanied her into this new friendship, and which she could not shake off. It came from a lost battle, from a silent and great defeat. She was afraid of it, for it was black and profound beyond all plumbing. Often in her ten years of retirement she had felt melancholy. But this was a new sort of sadness. There was an acrid edge to it. It had the peculiar and subtle terror of a grief that was not caused only by events, but also, and specially, by something within herself. “Gnocchi--we must have gnocchi!” “Oh, yes.” “But wait, though! There are ravioli! It would hardly do to have both, I suppose, would it?” “No; they are too much alike.” “Then which shall we have?” She was going to say, “I don’t mind!” but remembered her role and said: “Please, ravioli for me.” And she believed that she said it with gusto, as if she really did care. “For me too!” said Craven. And he went on considering and asking, with his dark head bent over the menu and his blue eyes fixed upon it. “There! That ought to be a nice dinner!” he said, at last. “And for wine Chianti, I suppose?” “Yes, Chianti Rosso,” she answered, with the definiteness, she hoped, of the epicure. This small fuss about what they were going to eat marked for her the severing difference between Craven’s mental attitude at this moment and hers. For him this little dinner was merely a pleasant way of spending a casual evening in the company of one who was kind to him, whom he found sympathetic, whom he admired probably as a striking representative of an era that was past, the Edwardian era. For her it was an event full of torment and joy. The joy came from being alone with him. But she was tortured by yearnings which he knew nothing of. He was able to give himself out to her naturally. She was obliged to hold herself in, to conceal the horrible fact that she was obsessed by him, that she was longing to commit sacrifices for him, to take him as her exclusive possession, to surround him with love and worship. He wanted from her what she was apparently giving him and nothing more. She wanted from him all that he was not giving her and would never give her. The dinner would be a tranquil pleasure for him, and a quivering torture for her, mingled with some moments of forgetfulness in which she would have a brief illusion of happiness. She made the comparison and thought with despair of the unevenness of Fate. Meanwhile she was smiling and praising the vegetable soup sprinkled with Parmesan cheese.