She met him at a tiny and very French restaurant in Conduit Street, where the cooking was absolutely first rate, where there was no sound of music, and where very few English people went. There were only some eight or ten tables in the cosy, warm little room, and when Miss Van Tuyn entered it there were not a dozen people dining. Dick Garstin was not there. It was just like him to be late and to keep a woman waiting. But he had engaged a table in the corner of the room on the right, away from the window. And Miss Van Tuyn was shown to it by a waiter, and sat down. On the way she had bought _The Westminster Gazette_. She opened it, lit a cigarette, and began to glance at the news. There happened to be a letter from Paris in which the writer described a new play which had just been produced in an outlying theatre. Miss Van Tuyn read the account. She began reading in a casual mood, but almost immediately all her attention was grasped and held tight. She forgot where she was, let her cigarette go out, did not see Garstin when he came in from the street. When he came up and laid a hand on her arm she started violently. “Who’s--Dick!” An angry look came into her face. “Why did you do that?” “What’s the matter?” He stared at her almost as if fascinated. “By Jove . . . you look wonderful!” “I forbid you to touch me like that! I hate being pawed, and you know it.” He glanced at the pale green paper. “The sea-green incorruptible!” He stretched out his hand, but she quickly moved the paper out of his reach. “Let us dine. You’ve kept me waiting for ages.” Garstin sent a look to his waiter, and sat down opposite to Miss Van Tuyn with his back to the room. “I’ll buy a _Westminster_ going back,” he observed. “Bisque! Bring a bottle of the Lanson, Raoul.” He addressed the waiter in French. “_Oui, m’sieu_.” “Well iced!” “_Certainement_, Monsieur Garstin.” “Better tempered now, Beryl?” “You always make out that I have the temper of a fiend. I hate being startled. That’s all.” “You’re awfully nervy these days.” “I think you are the cruellest man I know. If it weren’t for your painting no one would have anything to do with you.” “I shouldn’t care.” “Yes, you would. You love being worshipped and run after.” “Good soup, isn’t it?” She made no answer to this. After a silence she said: “Why were you so late?” “To give you time to study the evening paper.” “Were you working?” “No--cursing.” “Why?” “This damned portrait’s going to be no good either!” “Then you’d better give it up.” He shot a piercing glance at her. “It isn’t my way to give things up once I’ve put my hand to them,” he observed drily. “And you seem to forget that you put me up to it.” “That was only a whim. You didn’t take it seriously.” “I do now, though.” “But if you’re baffled?”