Susannah found it very hard to speak to the waiter. It was like talking to someone through a partition. It seemed difficult even to move her lips; they felt wooden. "A petite marmite, please; then I'll see what more I want," she heard herself saying at last. But when the petite marmite came, steaming in its big, red casserole, she found herself quite disinclined to eat--almost unable to eat. She managed only two or three mouthfuls of the broth; then dallied with the beef. Perhaps it was because instantly--and for no reason whatever--she had become two people again. Perhaps it was because she had been drinking so much ice-water. It couldn't be because H. Withington Warner was sitting at the next table to the right. It couldn't be that--because she had told him, when first she saw him sitting there, that she was no longer afraid of the Carbonado Company. And indeed, when she turned to the left and saw him sitting there also--when by degrees she discovered that there was one of him at every table in the room, she thought of Alice in the Trial Scene in Wonderland, and became as contemptuous as Alice. "After all," she said, "you're only a pack of cards." With a flourish, the waiter set the dinner-card before her, asking: "What will you have next, Madame?" Oh yes, she was dining! "I think I can't eat any more--the bill, please," she heard one of her selves saying. That self, she discovered, took calm cognizance of everything about her; listened to conversation. As the waiter turned his back, that half of her saw that Mr. Warner wasn't there any more; neither at the table on her right, nor anywhere. But when she had paid the bill, tipped, and risen to go, the other self discovered that he was back again at every table; and that with every Warner was a Byan and an O'Hearn. "I am snapping my fingers at them, though nobody sees it," she said to both her selves. "I can't imagine how they ever troubled me so much. They don't know what I'm doing! I'm sleeping out of doors; they can find me only in rooms!" As though staggered by her complete composure, not one of this triplicate multitude of enemies followed her outside. "Now I'll go to Washington Square," she said, realizing that her personalities had merged again. "The birds must be in bed." She took a bus; and sank into languor and that curious, impersonal headache until the conductor, calling "All out," at the south terminus, recalled to her that she was going somewhere. "I must have been asleep," she thought. "Isn't this a wonderful world?"