“I hope so. That’s why I came. I feel like having a jolly evening.” The Forest Hotel occupied a fine position on the crest of a thickly-wooded hill overlooking one of the prettiest spots in Epping Forest. A large balcony opened on to the dining-room, which was on the first floor, and Chinese lanterns swung loosely from the ornamental pilasters. As Catherine caught sight of the table, a vista of white and silver and gleaming glass, she clapped her hands ecstatically. She was as a little child in her enthusiasm. “Oh, fine--fine!” she cried, clutching George once more by the arm. The table was on the balcony, and inside the dining-room the floor had been cleared, presumably for dancing. A sleek grand piano sprawled across one corner. Catherine rushed up to it and immediately plunged into some rapid, noisy piece. It was a splendid instrument, and the dim light (only the swaying lanterns on the balcony were lit) threw her into rapture. George came to her side, watching in admiration. Watching rather than listening, because, as he had himself admitted, he was no judge of music. And also because the red glow from the swinging lanterns kindled her hair like a puff of wind on smouldering charcoal. “There!” she cried, triumphant, as she executed something difficult with her left hand. She swung into a dirge-like melody, tired of it seemingly, and broke into energetic ragtime. George felt it was in some way inappropriate to play ragtime at such a moment. “Let’s come out on to the balcony,” he suggested, “we’ve only got a quarter of an hour or so before the others come.” “Well, we’ve nothing particular to do, have we?” “It’s cooler.... Come on....” They walked through the French windows and sat on the parapet overlooking the gravel courtyard and the blurred panorama of the Forest. “It ought to be moonlight,” he exclaimed rapturously. “No, it oughtn’t,” she contradicted. “I’m glad it isn’t. Starlight is much better.” It was not an encouraging beginning for him. “Do you mind if I talk to you seriously?” he asked. She laughed a little unsympathetically. “Not at all, only I don’t suppose I shall talk to you seriously.” “Then it’s not much good, is it?” he remarked, crest-fallen. “No. Much better to talk nonsense. Let’s talk nonsense. Does one eat oysters with a spoon or a fork?” “I can’t----” “But I want to know. I noticed we begin with oysters, and I’m not sure what tools to use. Surely you don’t want me to make a fool of myself. Come, tell me, how does one masticate oysters?” “A fork is customary, I believe.” “Thank you. That is what I wanted to know.” There was a pause, during which the distant sound of voices reached them from the dim Forest background. “They’re just coming,” she said. “They must have come by bus, like we did.” He ground his heel into the carpet-matting.