Madame had told her the hour for dinner--7 till 8 p.m.; the luncheon was till 2 o'clock; and breakfast eaten in the room. A foreign atmosphere permeated the house. She turned away from the depressing night, lighted all the gas-burners, pulled down the shades and proceeded to make a modest toilette. Her trunk hadn't arrived, so she must eat her first meal in street clothes. No gong had sounded. Summoning courage she pressed a button. No answer, but from the sounds of talking and general bustle she knew that dinner was served. Another embarrassment. How to enter a dining-room full of strangers? Easter was a well-bred young woman, but not accustomed to the world; above all, to a Bohemian world. At the Maison Felicé, she had been informed, that the guests were celebrated. Singers, painters, actors, musicians there congregated. A perfect Bohemia where she would rub elbows, even speak to the people she most admired--artistic folk. She crossed a parlour, and found herself on a landing from which she could see a long table in the middle of the room, with little tables ranged along the walls. A numerous company was assembled, gabbling, eating, drinking, seemingly happy. An old chap with a bald head and grizzled moustaches saluted her rather markedly. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked prosperous and authoritative. "I wish you the good-evening and a welcome, Mademoiselle," he said. "You must be tired and hungry. I am Monsieur Felicé. Come with me. I give you a table to yourself with only one other guest. But--a nice young man, I assure you, quite an old friend of the house." His speech was voluble, accompanied by many gestures. He was Provençal, his wife Swiss. He stared at the girl. She was pretty, though not to his taste. He preferred blondes. She sat herself at a table near the short flight of steps that led from the foyer to the salle-à-manger. She was alone. Soon her soup was served. It was like wine to her faded spirits. Easter felt more cheerful. Decidedly a full stomach is an obstacle to melancholy. She sipped a glass of red wine. Her humour began to mellow. The soup was excellent, the fish promising--and then there stood before her, slightly bowing, a small, slender young man who introduced himself: "Papa Felicé tells me I am to have the honour of sitting at dinner with you. My name is Stone, Alfred Stone, at your service." His manner was a trifle formal. He looked about forty and was barely thirty. A young-old man, worn, though not precisely dissipated looking. Easter didn't know whether she liked or disliked him. She resented his presence because he disturbed her dreams. But when he asked her name she became interested. "Papa Felicé says you are a singer, Miss Brandès. Brandès! That must be a Jewish name?" "No, I am not Jewish. And my first name Esther! My father was born in Virginia. So was I. He may have had Jewish blood in his veins. I don't know. He said his father was a Dane--"