It was a tradition in Harley Street that on Sunday evenings a cold supper should be laid in the dining-room from half-past eight onward, so that guests could go down whenever it so pleased them. To break up the continuity of the evening by a formal gathering around a supper table was opposed to Caroline's notions. Besides, irregularities in meals were one of the features of the house. You need never be in time, and there was always food when you wanted it. To the erratic and unregulated visitor it was paradise. Caroline paid her servants extra wages to insure satisfaction in this respect. So Clytie's little manouvre was quite in accordance with the recognised order of things. They found the dining-room unoccupied. She sat down near the end of the table, while Kent, a little way off, gravely carved some chicken, which he brought to her together with some salad and a jug of claret-cup. Then he sat down by her, at the corner. “But aren't you going to eat anything yourself?” she asked, laughing. “I am not hungry.” “Oh, that doesn't matter. Do go and get something, to keep me in countenance. How can I eat when you are sitting watching me like that, with your elbow on the table?” “I have done it so often before. It seemed natural to sit by you while you had your meal. I was forgetting. You see my manners have not improved. However----” He rose for the purpose of helping himself to some food, but Clytie stopped him, made him sit down again. “There! It was silly of me,” she said. “I did not think of it. Don't be any different from what you used to be. Let us imagine that this evening is one of the old Sunday evenings here. Ah! If you only knew how glad I am to see you. What an eternity it has been since we met.” “Eighteen months,” said Kent laconically. “The longest eighteen months I have ever lived.” “Why?” “Don't you think I have missed you?” “So much as that?” “Yes; so much as that.” “My poor Kent!” said Clytie, troubled. “I wish I could do something for you.” “Ah, _es ist vorbei_,” he said, puckering his brows, as he watched the rings he was making in the damask with an inverted wineglass. Then his forehead suddenly cleared, and he looked up with his frank laugh. “You see I am just as much of a bear as ever. Instead of telling you what a delight it is to be with you again, I come to you complaining, and I ought to have every reason not to rail at fortune.” “You are doing great things, I hear,” said Clytie. “Tell me about them.” “Oh, they are neither great nor much worth telling. The _opus_ is being translated into German, and part of it will be soon published by the University of Vienna.” “That is a feather in your cap.” “A big one. I don't think I am given to running after notoriety and that sort of thing, but it is gratifying to be recognised a little. It encourages one.” “Ah, it does!” said Clytie with more meaning than she intended. “So I have been working away at it harder than ever.”