to a subject so near akin to grave matters. She was satisfied with
Douglas's declaration of innocence--he was only anxious to forget his
whole past, and that chapter of it in special. So they passed on to
lighter subjects, discussed the people who entered and passed out,
praised the dinner and marvelled at its cheapness. They watched the
head waiter, with his little black imperial and beady eyes, a miracle of
suaveness, deftness, and light-footedness, one moment bowing before a
newcomer, his face wreathed with smiles, the next storming with
volubility absolutely indescribable at a tardy waiter, a moment later
gravely discussing the wine list with a _bon viveur_, and offering
confidential and wholly disinterested advice. It was all ordinary
enough perhaps, but a chapter out of real life. Their pleasure was
almost the pleasure of children.

Later she grew confidential.

"Douglas," she said, "I am going to tell you a secret."

"If there is anything I thoroughly enjoy after a good dinner," he
remarked, fishing an olive out of the dish, "it is a secret."

"You mustn't laugh."

"I'll be as sober as a judge," he promised.

"You know I shall have to earn my own living. We have really very
little money and we must, both of us, do something. Now I have been
trying to do in earnest what I have done for my own pleasure all my
life. Do you know what that is?"