"You said you wanted a walk before dinner"; Wenny sauntered ahead talking over his shoulder. "We are getting it. I didn't know there were so many streets in Boston, did you, Nan?" Fanshaw spoke with a little sniggering laugh. The ooze of grimy unfamiliar lives out of these dark houses oppressed him. Unhealthy it must be down here, typhoid, consumption, typhus, diphtheria. He felt himself putting his feet down gently as he walked as if he feared that at a loud step the pulpy darkness would burst suddenly into oaths and shouts, dirty hands clutching at his coat and whisky-steaming faces thrust into his. "Now you know where you are," said Wenny. They had burst suddenly out into the shine and scuttle of Hanover Street, where men and women, dark bulky shadows in overcoats and mufflers and bits of fur, flitted constantly past the broad show-windows bright with intricate glints on shoes and hardware and sourish colors in clothing stores and gleaming cascades of cheap jewelry over black velvet under the three ominous gold balls of pawnbrokers. "Gee, I'm glad it's Saturday night!" "Why Wenny?" Fanshaw stood on the curb beside Nan, blinking a little, dazzled by the noise and hustle. "Because it's Saturday night you old owl.... This way." "You aren't going to take us into more dark alleys and get us black-jacked for your entertainment, are you Wenny?" "I'm going to give you the best bottle of white wine you ever had in your life. Here we are." VENICE read Fanshaw on the window. Stood in Venice by the Bridge of Sighs, a prison and a palace on each hand. Byron; rather a rotter he must have been, or perhaps passionate impulsive hot, like Wenny. The verdict of history. They were sitting at a round table in the window. The waiter, a grey eggshaped man with sagging pockets under his eyes and a sagging vest too large for him was bending over the table. The others were ordering. How ravishing Nan was tonight in a black dress with great spots of burnt orange embroidery; her eyes under the small black hat trimmed with the same color, were full of little green sparks. "I swear, Nan," Wenny was saying, "you are the only woman in this blooming town who knows how to dress." "Where did you get that dress anyway? I have never seen it before," chimed in Fanshaw. He had a vague feeling of pique at not having said it first. Nan and Wenny seemed to get along so well this evening. He felt out of place down here in the slums. The food would probably be horrid. "This is delightful, Wenny," Nan was saying. "What I want to know is why have you never brought us here before?" The lint from the napkin came off on Fanshaw's blue serge suit. What a mess. Mechanically he started wiping off the knife and fork when the waiter set them down before him. "Like in Europe," he said aloud. "You must forgive me Wenny, but I am suspicious of this famous restaurant of yours." "And just looked there a fiasco just like in Italy," cried Nan, "Why this is wonderful."