She ate one of the rolls, drank
the coffee. Before she had finished, the waiter stood beaming
before her and said:
"A cigarette--yes?"
"Oh, no," replied Susan, a little sadly.
"But yes," urged he. "It isn't against the rules. The boss's
wife smokes. Many ladies who come here do--real ladies. It is
the custom in Europe. Why not?" And he produced a box of
cigarettes and put it on the table. Susan lit one of them and
once more with supreme physical content came a cheerfulness
that put color and sprightliness into the flowers of hope. And
the sun had won its battle with the storm; the storm was in
retreat. Sunshine was streaming in at the windows, into her
heart. The waiter paused in his work now and then to enjoy
himself in contemplating the charming picture she made. She
was thinking of what the wagon restaurant man had said. Yes,
Life had been chipping away at her; but she had remained good
stone, had not become rubbish.
About half-past ten Lange came down from his flat which was
overhead. He inspected her by daylight and finding that his
electric light impressions were not delusion was highly pleased
with her. He refused to allow her to pay for the coffee.
"Johann!" he called, and the leader of the orchestra approached
and made a respectful bow to his employer. He had a solemn
pompous air and the usual pompadour. He and Susan plunged into
the music question, found that the only song they both knew was
Tosti's "Good Bye.
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