The next day she reappeared. Her arm was out of the sling and she had a band of sticking-plaster round her wrist. The relief of seeing her was so great that he could not resist staring directly at her for several seconds. On the following day he very nearly succeeded in speaking to her. When he came into the canteen she was sitting at a table well out from the wall， and was quite alone. It was early， and the place was not very full. The queue edged forward till Winston was almost at the counter， then was held up for two minutes because someone in front was complaining that he had not received his tablet of saccharine. But the girl was still alone when Winston secured his tray and began to make for her table. He walked casually towards her， his eyes searching for a place at some table beyond her. She was perhaps three metres away from him. Another two seconds would do it. Then a voice behind him called， “Smith！” He pretended not to hear. “Smith！” repeated the voice， more loudly. It was no use. He turned round. A blond-headed， silly-faced young man named Wilsher， whom he barely knew， was inviting him with a smile to a vacant place at his table. It was not safe to refuse. After having been recognized， he could not go and sit at a table with an unattended girl. It was too noticeable. He sat down with a friendly smile. The silly blond face beamed into his. Winston had a hallucination of himself smashing a pick-axe right into the middle of it. The girl’s table filled up a few minutes later.
But she must have seen him coming towards her， and perhaps she would take the hint. Next day he took care to arrive early. Surely enough， she was at a table in about the same place， and again alone. The person immediately ahead of him in the queue was a small， swiftly-moving， beetle-like man with a flat face and tiny， suspicious eyes. As Winston turned away from the counter with his tray， he saw that the little man was making straight for the girl’s table. His hopes sank again. There was a vacant place at a table further away， but something in the little man’s appearance suggested that he would be sufficiently attentive to his own comfort to choose the emptiest table. With ice at his heart Winston followed. It was no use unless he could get the girl alone. At this moment there was a tremendous crash. The little man was sprawling on all fours， his tray had gone flying， two streams of soup and coffee were flowing across the floor. He started to his feet with a malignant glance at Winston， whom he evidently suspected of having tripped him up. But it was all right. Five seconds later， with a thundering heart， Winston was sitting at the girl’s table.
He did not look at her. He unpacked his tray and promptly began eating. It was all-important to speak at once， before anyone else came， but now a terrible fear had taken possession of him. A week had gone by since she had first approached him. She would have changed her mind， she must have changed her mind！ It was impossible that this affair should end successfully； such things did not happen in real life. He might have flinched altogether from speaking if at this moment he had not seen Ampleforth， the hairy-eared poet， wandering limply round the room with a tray， looking for a place to sit down. In his vague way Ampleforth was attached to Winston， and would certainly sit down at his table if he caught sight of him.
There was perhaps a minute in which to act. Both Winston and the girl were eating steadily. The stuff they were eating was a thin stew， actually a soup， of haricot beans. In a low murmur Winston began speaking. Neither of them looked up； steadily they spooned the watery stuff into their mouths， and between spoonfuls exchanged the few necessary words in low expressionless voices.
“What time do you leave work？”
“Eighteen-thirty.”
“Where can we meet？”
“Victory Square， near the monument.”
“It’s full of telescreens.”
“It doesn’t matter if there’s a crowd.”
“Any signal？”
“No. Don’t come up to me until you see me among a lot of people. And don’t look at me. Just keep somewhere near me.”
“What time？”
“Nineteen hours.”
“All right.”
Ampleforth failed to see Winston and sat down at another table. They did not speak again， and， so far as it was possible for two people sitting on opposite sides of the same table， they did not look at one another. The girl finished her lunch quickly and made off， while Winston stayed to smoke a cigarette.
Winston was in Victory Square before the appointed time. He wandered round the base of the enormous fluted column， at the top of which Big Brother’s statue gazed southward towards the skies where he had vanquished the Eurasian aeroplanes （the Eastasian aeroplanes， it had been， a few years ago） in the Battle of Airstrip One. In the street in front of it there was a statue of a man on horseback which was supposed to represent Oliver Cromwell. At five minutes past the hour the girl had still not appeared. Again the terrible fear seized upon Winston. She was not coming， she had changed her mind！ He walked slowly up to the north side of the square and got a sort of pale-coloured pleasure from identifying St Martin’s Church， whose bells， when it had bells， had chimed “You owe me three farthings.” Then he saw the girl standing at the base of the monument， reading or pretending to read a poster which ran spirally up the column. It was not safe to go near her until some more people had accumulated. There were telescreens all round the pediment. But at this moment there was a din of shouting and a zoom of heavy vehicles from somewhere to the left. Suddenly everyone seemed to be running across the square. The girl nipped nimbly round the lions at the base of the monument and joined in the rush. Winston followed. As he ran， he gathered from some shouted remarks that a convoy of Eurasian prisoners was passing.