Sixth Avenue instead of homeward.

"May I ask where we are going now?" said Miss Lavinia, meekly. She had
really enjoyed the play, and I know I heard her sniff once or twice at
the proper time, though of course I pretended not to.

"Going?" echoed Evan. "Only around the corner to get three fries in a
box, with the usual pickle and cracker trimmings, there being no
restaurant close by that you would care for; then we will carry them home
and have a little supper in the pantry, if your Lucy has not locked up
the forks and taken the key to bed. If she has, we can use wooden
toothpicks."

At first Miss Lavinia seemed to feel guilty at the idea of disturbing
Lucy's immaculate pantry at such an hour; but liberty is highly
infectious. She had spent the evening out without previous intent; the
next step was to feel that her soul was her own on her return. She
unlocked the forks, Evan unpacked the upstairs ice-chest for the dog's
head bass that wise women always have when they expect visiting
Englishmen, even though they are transplanted and acclimated ones, and
she ate the oysters, still steaming from their original package, with
great satisfaction. After we had finished Miss Lavinia bravely declared
her independence of Lucy. The happy don't-care feeling produced by
broiled oysters and bass on a cold night is a perfect revelation to
people used to after-theatre suppers composed of complications, sticky
sweets, and champagne.

When we had finished I thought for a moment that she showed a desire to
conceal the invasion by washing the dishes, but she put it aside, and we
all went upstairs together.