tasted, too, the steaming soup that appeared before her, was conscious later of the fragrance of broiled chicken, and dimly aware how easily the ivory-handled, steel knife cut through its tender joints; tried to swallow a mouthful of the young juicy flesh; but she couldn't eat. She felt as if she could never eat again.
"For heaven's sake," she heard Chadwick Booth exclaim impatiently. "Whatever is the matter, Becky?"
What was the matter? Could he ask, when all about her in smoking ruins lay her shattered hopes, and fallen ideals, and she was bleeding to death beneath them?
"Nothing. Nothing's the matter," she heard her voice reply.
Chadwick Booth shrugged at that. "You've got a lot to learn, I'm afraid," he informed her.
"I suppose so," she agreed.
"I'm extremely sorry," he pursued, in a voice that stung Reba with its formality, "if you've been laboring under a misapprehension this summer, but really, my dear girl, I haven't tried to deceive you for one instant. There's no real harm been done, anyhow, as far as I can see."
Oh, why flay and torture her further? "Oh, don't talk about it." She shivered slightly.
"Is the wind too much for you from that window?" civilly and icily Chadwick Booth inquired.
"No," Reba told him. "It isn't too much."
Then, "One whisky and soda," she heard him order from the waiter. "And put down that window," he went on imperiously, "and remove some of these superfluous dishes." He waved his sensitive hands before him. "And where's the salad I ordered? Why all this delay? And when I specified fresh butter,
