"Galli-Curci's singing to-night, I seem to recall. Rigoletto or some such happy little bit's on. Mother's giving a treat to a lot of returned canteeners in our cage; but we can find seats in somebody's box, if you care 'bout hearing Galli. Do you?" he asked as eight o'clock drew near.
Ethel shook her head. Bennet was forming the hope that his dinner had dispelled her troubles, and she would now simply forget them. They had finished dessert and both were taking black coffee. Julia and her party either had not come to the hotel at all or were in another dining room; Bennet did not bother to look them up. Several acquaintances, on their way to and from other tables, had halted to say a few words to Ethel; and a woman in the last party to pass had asked Bennet:
"Tell me, you've not yet any positive word of the fate of Mrs. Oliver Cullen?"
"Nothing really positive," Bennet had replied.
The big room was clearing as groups departed for the opera; the nearest bles all were deserted. Bennet paid his check and lit a cigarette; he leaned easily upon the table.
"Well, what do you want to do now, Eth—talk?"
"Yes," she said.
Here and there she noticed uniformed men and, out upon the street, some one passed with a freeness in his step which reminded her of Barney Loutrelle. Bennet was not at all like Barney. They were nearly the same height, but Bennet was heavily built; his hands naturally were broader, though they showed no traces of long usage to manual work which Barney's hands retained. Physically, the two young men were very unlike, and in spirit, oh, totally different.
