Presently he wandered into the salon, and lounged round the reading-room. Everywhere it was unpromisingly quiet. A hint of siesta pervaded the hotel. Should he go out? He sauntered through the hall, but the dazzle of the Plage blistering in the glare made his eyes ache. He went back to the shade, and ruffled newspapers, and smoked cigarettes. A child came into the scorching courtyard that was called a "garden," and hopped round on one leg, and said to another child, "Can you do that?" The starling twittered imperturbably. Who said Ostend was gay? Benighted male! the women weren't asleep, they were all changing their frocks again. When he woke he had missed one of the sights of the day--the "creations" that vie with another between five o'clock and seven. A gong was booming. Only the first gong. Good! There was time for him to dress before the room began to fill. He sought the head-waiter, and inquired if a place facing the door could be arranged. The headwaiter had house property, and two sons at college, but he was the urbanest of head-waiters. A novice tips the servants when he leaves an hotel, and, if he is a generous novice, pays for attention which he hasn't received; a traveller of experience tips them when he arrives, and gets the liver wing and a seat by the window. The second gong was still reverberating when No. 17 descended to dinner. The urbanest of head-waiters hovered on the threshold. For scrutinising the company Conrad had scarcely time to glance at the menu. The doorway was as dazzling as the Plage had been: a cinematograph of toilettes, a succession of audacities--only clusters of diamonds seemed to keep some of the bodices up. Man formed a shifting background to an exhibition of jewels, a pageant of skirts and breasts. Still more gowns. The humming room was the apotheosis of Clothes--until the women sat down, and then it was the apotheosis of Bosom. She came in late. She wore white satin, embroidered in silver, and a "collar" of emeralds. He recognised her at once. There was no hesitation in his mind--he had expected to hesitate--he knew her the instant she appeared. She had altered certainly--even pathetically; the girl of twenty years ago was lost; but in the flash of the moment the difference in her face startled him less than the difference in her figure. A shade too stout. Yes, a shade too stout for his taste! And--and _had_ her hair been copper colour in Rouen? But a pretty woman, nobody could deny it. She didn't look a day more than thirty-five--might pass for thirty now the rose glow of the lamps was on her! ... Well--almost!