As he ate his excellently cooked meal he felt pleasantly warmed and even the least bit excited. This was a wholly unexpected encounter. To meet the old age and the radiant youth which at the moment interested him more than any other old age, any other radiant youth, in London, in these surroundings, to watch them with the music of guitars in his ears and the taste of ravioli on his lips, silently to drink to them in authentic Chianti--all this gave a savour to his evening which he had certainly not anticipated. When now and then his eyes sought the table tucked into the corner by the window, he saw his two acquaintances plunged deep in conversation. Presently Miss Van Tuyn lit a cigarette, which she smoked in the short interval between two courses. She moved, and sat in such a way that her profile was presented to the room as clearly and definitely as a profile stamped on a finely cut coin. Certainly she was marvellously good-looking. She had not only the beauty of colouring; she had also the more distinguished and lasting beauty of line. An Italian voice near to Craven remarked loudly, with a sort of coarse sentimentality: “_Che bella ragassa!_” Another Italian voice replied: “_Ha ragione di venire qui con quella povera vecchia! Com’e brutta la vecchiezza!_” For a moment Craven felt hot with a sort of intimate anger; but the guitars began “Santa Lucia,” and took him away again to Naples. And what is the use of being angry with the Italian point of view? As well be angry with the Mediterranean for being a tideless sea. But he glanced at the profile and remembered the words, and could not help wondering whether Miss Van Tuyn’s cult for Lady Sellingworth had its foundations in self-love rather than in attraction to her whom Braybrooke had called “the most charming _old_ woman in London.” Presently Miss Van Tuyn, turning three-quarters face, sent him a “coffee-look,” and he saw that a coffee apparatus of the hour-glass type was being placed on the table by the window. He nodded, but held up a clean spoon to indicate that his zabaione had yet to be swallowed. She smiled, understanding, and spoke again to Lady Sellingworth. A few minutes later Craven left his table and joined them, taking his Toscana with him. They were charmingly prepared for his advent. Three cups were on the table, and coffee for three was mounting in the hour glass. The two friends were smoking cigarettes. As he prepared to sit down on the chair placed ready for him with his back to the window, Miss Van Tuyn said: “One minute! Please give the musicians this!” She put five shillings into his hand. “And ask them to play the Sicilian Pastorale, and ‘A Mezzanotte,’ and the Barcarola di Sorrento, and _not_ to play ‘Funiculi, Funicula.’ Do you mind?” “Of course not! But do let me--” “No, no! This is my little treat to Lady Sellingworth. She has never been here before.”