She surrendered herself body and soul to the exhilaration of the moment, as if conscious that it was all too good to be true; that her surroundings might any moment fade; that her gay clothes would disappear, and that she would again find herself, heartsick and weary, in her comfortless little combined room at Mrs Bilkins's. At the same time, her natural alertness took in everything going on about her. As the dinner progressed, she could not help seeing how Mr Ellis's eyes seemed to awaken from their torpor; but the life that came into them was such that Mavis much preferred them as they originally were. They sparkled hungrily; it seemed to the girl as if they had a fearful, hunted, and, at the same time, eager, unholy look, as if they sought refuge in some deadly sin in order to escape a far worse fate. Mavis's and Williams's gaiety was infectious. Ellis frequently joined in the raillery proceeding between the pair; it was as if Mavis's youth, comeliness, and charm compelled homage from the pleasure-worn man of the world. Mrs Hamilton, all this while, said little; she left the entertaining to Mavis, who was more than equal to the effort; it seemed to the joy-intoxicated girl as if she were the bountiful hostess, Mrs Hamilton a chance guest at her table. The appearance of strawberries at dessert (it was January) made a lull in Mavis's enjoyment: the out-of-season fruit reminded her of the misery which could be alleviated with the expenditure of its cost. She was silent for a few moments, which caused Ellis to ask: "I say, Windebank, what have you said to our friend?" Mavis looked up quickly, to see a look of annoyance on Mrs Hamilton's face. "Williams, I should have said," corrected Ellis. "I muddled the two names. What have you said to our friend that she should be so quiet all at once?" "Give it up," replied Williams. "Perhaps she's offended at our childishness." The men talked. Mrs Hamilton, with something of an effort, joined in the conversation. Mavis was silent; she wondered how Mr Ellis came to address Mr Williams as "Windebank," which was also the name of the friend of the far-away days when her father was alive. She reflected how Archie Windebank would be now twenty-eight, an age that might well apply to Mr Williams. Associated with these thoughts was an uneasy feeling, which had been once or twice in her mind, that the two men at table were far too distinguished-looking to bear such commonplace names as Ellis and Williams. The others rallied her on her depression. Striving to believe that she must be mistaken in her suspicions, she made an effort to end the perplexities that were beginning to confront her. "Are you at Aldershot for long?" asked Mavis of Mr Williams. "I scarcely know: one never does know these things." "Do you come up often?" "I shall now." "To see your people?" "They live in the west of England." "Wiltshire?" "How did you know?" "I didn't; I guessed."