“Oh!” he began—­and the sudden perception that she had made this statement impartially added to his perplexity.  “Well,” he was able to answer, “we’re as good as married, aren’t we, Janet?” He leaned toward her, he put his hand on hers.  “The manager here is an old friend of mine.  He knows we’re as good as married.”

“Another old friend!” she queried.  And the touch of humour, in spite of his taut nerves, delighted him.

“Yes, yes,” he laughed, rather uproariously.  “I’ve got ’em everywhere, as thick as landmarks.”

“You seem to,” she said.

“I hope you’re hungry,” he said.

“Not very,” she replied.  “It’s all so strange—­this day, Claude.  It’s like a fairy story, coming here to Boston in the snow, and this place, and—­and being with you.”

“You still love me?” he cried, getting up.

“You must know that I do,” she answered simply, raising her face to his.  And he stood gazing down into it, with an odd expression she had never seen before....  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Nothing—­nothing,” he assured her, but continued to look at her.  “You’re so—­so wonderful,” he whispered, “I just can’t believe it.”

“And if it’s hard for you,” she answered, “think what it must be for me!” And she smiled up at him.

Ditmar had known a moment of awe....  Suddenly he took her face between his hands and pressed his rough cheek against it, blindly.  His hands trembled, his body was shaken, as by a spasm.

“Why, you’re still cold, Claude!” she cried anxiously.

And he stammered out:  “I’m not—­it’s you—­it’s having you!”

Before she could reply to this strange exclamation, to which, nevertheless, some fire in her leaped in response, there came a knock at the door, and he drew away from her as he answered it.  Two waiters entered obsequiously, one bearing a serving table, the other holding above his head a large tray containing covered dishes and glasses.

“I could do with a cocktail!” Ditmar exclaimed, and the waiter smiled as he served them.  “Here’s how!” he said, giving her a glass containing a yellow liquid.

She tasted it, made a grimace, and set it down hastily.

“What’s the trouble?” he asked, laughing, as she hurried to the table and took a drink of water.

“It’s horrid!” she cried.

“Oh, you’ll get over that idea,” he told her.  “You’ll be crazy about ’em.”

“I never want to taste another,” she declared.

He laughed again.  He had taken his at a swallow, but almost nullifying its effect was this confirmation—­if indeed he had needed it—­of the extent of her inexperience.  She was, in truth, untouched by the world —­the world in which he had lived.  He pulled out her chair for her and she sat down, confronted by a series of knives, forks, and spoons on either side of a plate of oysters.  Oysters served in this fashion, needless to say, had never formed part of the menu in Fillmore Street, or in any Hampton restaurant where she had lunched.  But she saw that Ditmar had chosen a little fork with three prongs, and she followed his example.