“I’m going to have toast and jam,” she announced expansively when the waitress appeared.
“Bring me just a large pot of tea and some kind of sweetmeat,” said Mr. Shatov reproachfully.
“Pastries,” murmured Miriam.
“What is pastries ” he asked mournfully.
“ Pâtisseries ” beamed Miriam.
“Ah no,” he explained patiently, “it is not that at all; I will have simply some small things in sugar.”
“No pastries; cake,” said the waitress, watching herself in the mirror.
“Ach bring me just tea ,” bellowed Mr. Shatov.
Several people looked round, but he did not appear to notice them and sat hunched, his overcoat coming up behind beyond his collar, his arms thrust out over the table, ending in grubby clasped hands. In a moment he was talking. Miriam sat taking in the change in the feeling of the familiar place under the influence of his unconcerned presence. There were the usual strangers strayed in from the galleries, little parties, sitting exposed at the central tables