Page:Caroline Lockhart--The Fighting Shepherdess.djvu/185

 in his element that Mrs. Toomey temporarily forgot her disquietude in being proud of him. His dinner jacket was not the latest cut, but after giving it much consideration they had decided that it was not far enough off to be noticeable, and how very handsome and assured he looked as he sauntered with the confident air of a man who had only to entertain a whim to gratify it.

Such is the psychology of clothes and the effect of environment upon some temperaments that that was the way Mr. Toomey felt about it. Prouty and importunate creditors did not exist for him. This condition of mental intoxication continued when the play was over and, fearful, Mrs. Toomey spoke hastily of going home immediately.

"Im hungry," he asserted. "We'll go somewhere first and eat something."

"Let's have sandwiches sent up to the room," she pleaded.

"Why not a bow-wow from the night-lunch cart I noticed in the alley? I like the feeling of the mustard running between my fingers," derisively.

"Oh, Jap, we oughtn't to—we really ought not!"

But he might have been deaf, for all the attention he paid to her earnest protests as he turned into one of the brilliantly lighted restaurants which he had previously patronized and that he liked particularly. There was a glitter in his eyes which increased her uneasiness, and a recklessness in his manner that was not reassuring.

"I may go to my grave without ever seeing another lobster," he said as he ordered shellfish. " What will you have to drink?" while the waiter hovered.

"Nothing to-night," she replied, startled.

"Different here. Old Dear, I'm thirsty. The wine list, waiter."