Explore "Love" by Elizabeth Von Arnim on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
But she was weak; it was such fun; she couldn't spoil it; not for this one evening.
There were the roses, sisters to the roses in her room, making the table a thing apart and cared for among the flock of tables decorated cynically with a sad daffodil or wrinkled tulip stuck in sprigs of box and fir; and there the welcoming head waiter, himself hovering over the proper serving of dishes which all seemed to be what she chanced to like best, and there sat Christopher opposite her, flushed with happiness and so obviously adoring that the other diners noticed it and sent frequent discreet glances of benevolent and sympathetic interest across to their corner, and nobody seemed to think his attitude was anything but natural, for she couldn't help seeing that the glances, after dwelling benevolently on him, dwelt with equal benevolence on her. It was too funny. It wouldn't have been human not to like it; and whatever misconception it was based on, and however certainly it was bound to end, while it lasted it was -- well, amusing.