Amarilly gained assurance from the reflection of her hair in the mirror,
and they started gayly forth like two school children out for a lark. He
ushered her into a quiet little cafe that had an air of pronounced
elegance about it. In a secluded corner behind some palms came the
subdued notes of stringed instruments. Derry seemed to be well known
here, and his waiter viewed his approach with an air of proprietorship.

"It's dead quiet here," thought Amarilly wonderingly. "Like a church."

It was beginning to dawn upon her alert little brain that real things
were all quiet, not noisy like the theatre.

"What shall we have first, Amarilly?" inquired her new friend with mock
deference. "Bouillon?"

Amarilly, recalling the one time in her life when she had had
"luncheon," replied casually that she preferred fruit, and suggested a
melon.

"Good, Amarilly! You are a natural epicure. Fruit, certainly, on a warm
day like this. I shall let you select all the courses. What next?"

"Lobster," she replied nonchalantly.

"Fine! And then?"

"Grapefruit salad."

He looked at her in amazement, and reflected that she had doubtless been