They dined
at a little round table in the most desirable corner of the room--the
professor and Edith, Mr. Bomford and himself. The music of one of the
most famous orchestras in Europe alternately swelled and died away,
always with the background of that steady hum of cheerful conversation.
It was his first experience of a restaurant de luxe. He looked about
him in amazed wonder. He had expected to find himself in a palace of
gilt, to find the prevailing note of the place an unrestrained and
inartistic gorgeousness. He found instead that the decorations
everywhere were of spotless white, the whole effect one of cultivated
and restful harmony. The glass and linen on the table were perfect.
There was nowhere the slightest evidence of any ostentation. Within a
few feet of him, separated only by that little space of tablecloth and a
great bowl of pink roses, sat Edith, dressed as he had never seen her
before, a most becoming flush upon her cheeks, a new and softer
brilliancy in her eyes, which seemed always to be seeking his. They
drank champagne, to the taste and effects of which he was as yet
unaccustomed. Burton felt its inspiring effect even though he himself
drank little.
The conversation was always interesting.
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