As she stepped from the lift he thought her the most wonderful being he had ever seen. Fragile—adorable—desirable—everything to set a man’s heart on fire. With a passion he could not control he whispered: “You dear, beautiful—beautiful dear!” Her answering smile seemed to come from a long way off. They took their places, hers looking in the direction of Wynne’s table, and a busy waiter approached: “Ah, in one minute the supper. Wine? Cliquot ver’ good.” “Champagne?” queried Quiltan. “I suppose so—yes, of course.” He gave the order. A _consommé_ was brought in little cups. Presently a cork popped into a serviette and the creaming wine tinkled into the glasses. A few guests at the neighbouring table rose and left, one or two others following their example. The company began to thin out, and vistas occurred through which one could see people in other parts of the room. The conversation lost its general constant hum and became isolated and more individual. VII “You are a quiet old boy, aren’t you?” whispered Miss Esme. Wynne started and raised his head. “What—what’s that?” “I say you are quiet.” “Oh, yes.” “Funny old boy!” He called a waiter. “Get me some more cigarettes—these little boxes hold none at all.” “You smoke too much.” He played with a cold cigarette-end upon his plate. “You simply haven’t stopped.” “What?” “I say”—she whispered it—“isn’t it lovely being down here—just we two?” “Um.” He crumbled a piece of bread, then swept the crumbs to the floor. He shot a quick glance at her, lowered his eyes, picked up the cigarette-end again, and drew with it upon his plate. “I say—” “Wish that waiter would do what he is told.” Esme sighed and stole a shy glance at the clock. “Isn’t it getting late?” “Is it? I don’t know—I’m a late person. Ah, that’s better!” He took the cigarettes from the waiter and lighted one. When the man had gone, Esme remarked: “Everybody seems to be going away. Nobody left soon—but us.” “H’m.” “I love Brighton. Don’t you love the sea? I do—and the hills—oh, I love the hills!” Quite suddenly Wynne said: “Must you talk such a lot?” “Oh,” said Esme, “you old cross patch.” A party of people at a round table in the centre of the room rose and moved toward the door. VIII Eve and Quiltan sat in silence as course after course was brought to them. His few efforts to talk had broken down, and all he could do was to look at her—look at this woman who _might_ become his. As the party from the round table passed them by he said: “Emptying now.” Eve roused herself, and her eyes wandered round the room. Suddenly she leant forward with a sharp little gasp in her throat. “What is it?” said Quiltan, although he knew. She ignored his question. Her eyes were wide open and bright. Then she laughed a cold, quick laugh. “I’m glad,” she whispered—“yes, I’m glad—glad. Look!”