there opposite to me at our daintily appointed little table, you might partly understand.
Fortunately there was a small bunch of flowers on each table, so that ours was not conspicuous, save in superiority. She admired it, took out a spray of lilac and tucked it into the neck of her dress, the stem lying close against her white satin skin. Then, as she ate the hors d'œuvres, she sat silent and apparently thoughtful. It was not until we had begun with the soup that she spoke again.
"I do hope you won't think me rude or inquisitive, Brown," was her curiosity-provoking preface. "I don't mean to be either. But, you know, you interest me a good deal. In America we haven't precisely a middle class. It's all top and bottom with us, just like a tart with the inside forgotten. There, one wouldn't—wouldn't be apt to meet anyone quite like you. I—oh, I don't know how to put it. I'm afraid I began to say something that I can't finish. But—let me see, what shall I say? Isn't it a pity that with your intelligence and—and manners, and all you've learned, you can't get a position which would—would—give you—er—better opportunities?"
At the moment I thought that no position could give me a better opportunity than I had; in fact, as I began to tell you in the first few lines of this letter, I was inclined to believe it sent by Providence as an unexpected way out of my difficulties. Here we were together in no danger of being disturbed by outsiders (one doesn't count a waiter); here was she in a benignant mood, interested in me, and inclined to
