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Neither when he went into it with Rose, nor when he
left it, had he picked up any sort of landmark. There was a passage, he
remembered, leading back between two buildings, which projected to the
sidewalk. But there were a dozen of these in every block.
A miserable little lunch-room caught his eye, displaying in its dingy
windows, pies, oranges, big shallow pans of pork and beans. This was the
sort of place Rose would have to come to, he reflected, for her
breakfast. And with that thought--hardly the conscious hope that she
would actually come to this place this morning--he turned in, sat down
at a cloth spotted with coffee and catsup stains, and ordered his
breakfast of a yawning waiter. He even forced himself, when it was
brought in, to eat it. If it was good enough for Rose, wasn't it good
enough for him?
And all the while he kept his eye on the street door, in the
irrepressible, unacknowledged hope that the gods would be kind enough to
bring her there.
But it was a mocking hope, he knew, and he didn't linger after he'd
finished.


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