Loftus and Marie seated themselves on a bench near the gate through which they had entered. Loftus was smoking. A boy passed; stopped, and sticking his nose through the railings, called: “Hi, mister, will you give me a light?”
Loftus made no answer. The boy called again. “Will you? And a cigar with it?”
Then he laughed and passed on. The silence increased. In the air was a fragrance, the clinging odor of the honeysuckle, the clean smell of fresh turf. Beyond, the great dim houses that front the park gave the place and the hour an accent of their own.
“I like it here,” said Marie, “it is so elegant.”
“Never let me hear you use that word again. It is provincial, suburban and, worse, it is shopgirl.”
“Yes, dear.”
“This evening I saw you eat an ice with a spoon. Never do that. Use a fork.”
“Yes, dear.”
Appeased by this docility, Loftus condescended to agree in turn with her. He, too, liked the park. At night, when the weather was decent, always he sat there a bit quite by himself. He had done so for years. He told her this, adding confidentially, “It is a habit.”
To Marie the habit seemed most poetic. She said so, explaining that she was very fond of poetry.
Loftus looked up at the stars. “The only real poetry is there. By the way, do you believe in God?”