"Rose," he said presently, "what are we going to do?"
She knew she was not answering the true intent of his question when she
said:
"Well, for one thing we can get a little supper. I don't know what we've
got to eat, but we won't care--to-night."
There was a ring of decision in his voice that startled her a little
when he said:
"No, we won't do that to-night. We'll go out somewhere to a
restaurant."
Their eyes met--unwavering.
"Yes," she said, "that's what we'll do."
They didn't talk much across the table in the deserted little Italian
restaurant they went to. Neither of them afterward could remember
anything they'd said. They ate their meal in a sort of grave contented
happiness that was reaching down deeper and deeper into them every
minute, and they walked back to the gray brick building in Thirteenth
Street, arm in arm, hand in hand, in silence. But when she stopped
there, he said:
"Let's walk a little farther, Rose. There are things we've got to
decide, and--and I'm not going in with you again to-night.
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