There they sat--and there they might have been sitting ever since Andy parted from them, so much at home they looked--Billy Foot, the Nun, and Miss Dutton. Another young man was with them, completing the party. He was plump, while Billy was thin--placid, while Billy always suggested a reserve of excitement; but he had a likeness to Billy all the same. "Oh, I say, may I come?" cried Andy, boyishly loud; but the luck of meeting these friends again was too extraordinary. He trotted round the glass screen with his tumbler in his hand; he had not quite finished his lager beer. "Chair and coffee for Mr. Hayes," said Billy Foot. "You remember him, girls? My brother, Hayes--Gilly, Mr. Hayes. How did you leave Harry?" "How awfully funny I should meet you!" gasped Andy. "It's not funny if you ever come here," observed Miss Dutton; "because we come here nearly every day--with somebody." She was more sardonic than ever. The Nun--she was not, by the way, a Nun any longer, but a Quaker girl ("All in the same line," her manager said, with a fine indifference to the smaller theological distinctions), and now sang of how, owing to her having to wear sombre garments (expressed by a charming dove-tinted costume that sent the stalls mad), she had lost her first and only love--the Nun smiled at Andy in a most friendly fashion. "I'd quite forgotten you," she remarked, "but I'm glad to see you again. Let's see, you're--?" "Harry Belfield's friend." "Yes, you're Mr. Hayes. Oh, I remember you quite well. Been away since?" "No, I've been here. I mean--at work, and so on." "Oh, well!" sighed the Nun (Andy ventured to call her the Nun in his thoughts, though she had changed her persuasion). She seemed to express a gentle resignation to not being able to keep track of people; she met so many, coming every day to the restaurant. "I ask five, I want four, but with just the right fellow I'd take three," said Billy's brother Gilly, apparently continuing a conversation which seemed to interest nobody but himself; for the Nun was looking at neighbouring hats, Miss Dutton had relapsed into gloomy abstraction, and Billy was thoughtfully revolving a small quantity of old brandy round a very large glass. Gilly had an old brandy too, but his attitude towards it was one of studied neglect. His favourite vintage had given out the year before, so his life was rather desolate. "Harry's engaged," Andy volunteered to the Nun, glad to possess a remark of such commanding interest. "To a girl?" asked the Nun, absently and without turning her face towards him. "Well, of course!" said Andy. What else could one be engaged to? "Everybody comes to it," said Billy Foot. "Take three, if you must, Gilly." "At a push," said his brother sadly. "I hate that hat on that woman," said the Nun with a sudden vehemence, nodding her head at a fat woman in a large purple erection. Hats moved the Nun perhaps more than anything else in the world.