He shook her hand firmly. "Sorry you've been seedy. Hope it didn't lay you up." "Oh, no. I fancy I merely wanted an excuse to see Atlantic City. It was just a touch of bronchitis and fled at once." "Like Atlantic City?" "No. It is merely an interminable line of ostentatiously rich hotels on a _board walk_! None of the grace and dignity of Ostend--poor Ostend as it used to be. The digue was one of the most brilliant sights in Europe--but no doubt you have seen it," she added politely. "Yes, I spent a week there once, but Bruges interested me more. I was very young at the time." "You must have been! Don't you like to gamble? The Kursaal could be very exciting." "Oh, yes, I like to gamble occasionally." (God! What banal talk!) "Gambling with life, however, is a long sight more exciting." "Yes, is it not? Atlantic City might do you good. You do not look at all well." "Never felt better in my life. A bit tired. Generally am at this time of the year. May take a run down to Florida." "I should," she said politely. "Shall you stay long?" "That depends." (Presence of servants superfluous!) "Are you fond of the sea?" "I detest it--that boundless flat gray waste. A wild and rocky coast in a terrific storm, yes--but not that moving gray plain that comes in and falls down, comes in and falls down. It is the mountains I turn to when I can. I often long for the Austrian Alps. The Dolomites! The translucent green lakes like enormous emeralds, sparkling in the sun and set in straight white walls. A glimpse of pine forest beyond. The roar of an avalanche in the night." "New York and Atlantic City _must_ seem prosaic." He had never felt so polite. "I suppose you are eager to return?" (Why in hell don't those servants bring the dinner!) "I have not seen the Alps since two years before the war. Some day--yes! Oh, yes! Shall we sit down?" The two men entered with enormous dignity bearing plates of oysters as if offering the Holy Grail and the head of Saint John the Baptist on a charger. Impossible to associate class-consciousness with beings who looked as impersonal as fate, and would have regarded a fork out of alignment as a stain on their private 'scutcheon. They performed the rite of placing the oysters on the table and retired. Madame Zattiany and Clavering adjusted themselves to the Gothic period. The oysters were succulent. They discussed the weather. "This was a happy thought," he said. "It feels like a blizzard outside." "The radiator in the dining-room is out of order." "Oh!"