Hubert drove at twenty miles an hour and Lillian smoked and thought what she would order at Arras Inn. Lobster for choice. But suppose they didn't have lobster? A club sandwich, maybe. Or a chicken salad.
"Are you hungry?" Hubert asked her.
"Sort of."
"Well, when you get to that place you picked out, I want you to order anything you like. Anything at all now. Don't pay any attention to the prices."
"What makes you think I would?"
"Oh, I can tell your kind. You're the backward type."
"Hubert is reading her palm," Carl said.
"He's good at it, too," May whispered. "She's very backward. Not up to tenth year intelligence yet."
"Sh. She'll hear you."
"That would be awful, wouldn't it?"
Arras Inn was on Broadway, a few doors off Two Hundred and Seventh Street. It was a long, narrow place with latticed walls and colored lamp shades. There was music, singing, and once or twice a fire to vary the monotony.
There was lobster. Everybody ordered lobster. Little talking was done as the party chewed small, thin claws and delved hopefully into large, fat claws. Hubert had mayonnaise all over his mouth. Lillian didn't think it very becoming. She wanted to tell him to use his napkin, but she was afraid it would make him angry. She kept her eyes resolutely turned away from him.
The waiter came and carried away the shells. Lillian ventured a look at Hubert. There was still some mayonnaise down in the corner of his mouth. Lillian
