Nevertheless the conversation presently languished. There was no spontaneity in it. All around them loud voices were talking volubly in Italian. She glanced from table to table. It seemed to her that everyone was feeling happy and at ease except herself and Craven. They were ill matched. She became horribly self-conscious. She felt as if people were looking at them with surprise, as if an undercurrent of ridicule was creeping through the room. Surely many were wondering who the painted old woman and the young man were, why they sat together in the corner by the window! She saw one of the musicians smile and whisper to the companion beside him, and felt certain he was speaking about her, was smiling, at some ugly thought which he had just put into words. To an Italian she must certainly seem an old wreck of a woman, “_una vecchia_,” an object of contempt, or of smiling pity. She looked down at her red dress, remembered the jewels in her ears and at her throat. How useless and absurd were her efforts to look her best! A terrible phrase of Caroline Briggs came into her mind: “I feel as if I were looking at bones decked out in jewels.” And again she was back in Paris ten years ago; again she saw a contrast bizarre as the contrast she and Craven now presented to the crowd in the restaurant. Before the eyes of her mind there rose an old woman in a black wig and a marvellously handsome young man. Suddenly a thrill shot through her. It was like a sharp physical pain, a sword-thrust of agony. That profile which had seemed vaguely familiar to her just now, was it not like his profile? She tried to reason with herself, to tell herself that she was yielding to a crazy fancy, brought about by her nervous excitement and by the mental pain she was suffering. Many men slightly, sometimes markedly, resemble other men. One face seen in profile is often very much like another. But the even dark brown of the complexion! That was not very common, not the type of complexion one sees every day. She glanced at the men near to her. Most of them were Italians and swarthy. But not one had that peculiar, almost bronze-like darkness. Beryl had spoken of “a living bronze.” Craven was speaking to her again. She forced herself to reply to him, though she scarcely knew what she was saying. She saw a look of surprise in the eyes which he fixed on her. “Isn’t it getting very hot?” she said quickly. “It is rather hot. Shall I ask them to open the window a little? But it is just behind you.” “It doesn’t matter. I have brought my fan.” She picked the fan up and began to use it unsteadily. “The room is so very crowded to-night,” she murmured. “Yes. No wonder with such cooking. Here is the Zabaione.” The waitress put two large glasses before them filled with the thick yellow custard, then brought them a plate of biscuits.