He looked in the direction of her upward glance, and saw outlined against the sky a curious accidental roof-line made by the juxtaposition of two buildings. It was nothing—and it had the pure beauty of a design by Hiroshige. “Yes,” he said, gazing at it. An accidental scrap of beauty, unseen by millions of passing eyes, and only revealed, it seemed, to such people as themselves! He gazed, and the knowledge that she too saw it, that her world was full of such moments, and that they could share them together, satisfied his need of companionship. He pressed her arm closer to his side. They resumed their walk. “You can’t see things like that if you care about people,” she said. “And that’s how it works out.... But it’s nice to know some one else like that. Only—I don’t think this will last, with you....” “Why?” he demanded. “I don’t know.” “So you believe I’ll go back to caring—to being human, as they call it—to having remorse about the past and worries about the future, to being all tangled up in unhappiness again!” he said incredulously. She laughed, and sang, in a low voice, close to his ear, the lines of a song that went to an old ballad measure: “_Oh, the briary-bush, That pricks my heart so sore! If I ever get out of the briary-bush I’ll never get in any more!_” “You think you won’t, Felix, but you will! People do go back to the briary-bush. You have to learn early, to stay out.... But I’m glad you came to see me while you’re in this mood. You know, you may get over it in an hour or two!” “Wait and see!” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ LVI. Eulenspiegel 1 “ALL right—I’ll wait....” “Shall we sup in luxury at one of these gilded hotels?” “Yes, let’s,” she said. They went to the grill-room. It was gay with its midnight crowd, an orchestra was playing, and in the cleared space couples were dancing. The waiter found them a little table in the corner. “I’m really hungry,” she said. “I forgot to eat dinner.” “Silly child!” he said. “So did I.” “Who’s a silly child?” “I was waiting for my playmate.” They laughed. With her cloak thrown back carelessly on the chair, leaning forward with bare elbows on the table, her black hair tousled about her curiously slanting temples, her blouse askew over one shoulder, she was indeed very much a child. And he felt like a child too, and rejoiced in her as a careless and happy playfellow. “Let’s start,” she said, ignoring the menu, “with all the different kinds of little fishes.” “Good. And—” he consulted the menu—“a filet mignon?” She nodded. “And petit pois?... And then what? Some kind of salad, I suppose.” “One of the things you keep pulling apart all evening.” “Yes—what are they called? Artichoke. With Hollandaise sauce. And what kind of cocktail?” he asked.