And that was so. I had to put up with it. I had to put up with his determination to have supper in the public dining-room of the Andrassy merely because "we're going to do exactly what we should have done." I couldn't make him budge an inch by persuasion, but I guessed that where argument failed altogether, guile might slightly succeed. Accordingly, when we reached the hotel I piloted him into an alcove of the _gastzimmer_, whence we could see the rest of the room without being too prominently on view ourselves. That was something, at any rate. I don't think either of us enjoyed the supper very much. Terry was silent most of the time, and I found it hard to keep going a one-sided conversation. I kept looking at the swing-doors that led into the vestibule, looking at the Pesthians remorselessly picking their gold-filled teeth with fibre tooth-picks, looking at the tables as they filled and emptied; and at first hoping, and then, as time passed, even believing that the Severns must be dining elsewhere that night. It was already long past eight o'clock, and the room was getting emptier. The strain of waiting stamped its features indelibly on my memory; I can picture now its rather showy magnificence--panelled walls and gilt-and-white cornice, and so on--and, by way of contrast lower down, a wavy green smear of insecticide running all round the walls just above the floor. I remember that while the waiter was taking our order a large blue-black cockroach crawled sedately from under the table and disappeared into a hole near the skirting-board. A quarter to nine, and still there was no sign of the Severns. And then, just when I was about to suggest leaving the table, I saw a couple of waiters detach themselves from the serving and rush to hold open the doors with an obsequiousness that seemed to indicate the approach of at least an heir-apparent of a Balkan principality. But no ... it was Severn. Severn, in an exquisitely summery lounge-suit, Severn laughing and talking and gesticulating with that queer, panther-like litheness that marked him out from all other men in the world.... But the really odd thing was that the woman who was with him wasn't Helen. VIII The two walked to a table at the further end of the room. It was a specially reserved table, decorated with a mass of cut flowers and laid with an assortment of cutlery and wine-glasses that suggested a banquet rather than a meal. Waiters positively surrounded them as they took their seats, and by extraordinary good fortune Severn's back was towards me, while his companion was gazing straight in my direction across his shoulder. She was certainly, as Bentley had assured me, a damned pretty woman.... But, as I said before, the odd thing--yes, the _very_ odd thing--was that she wasn't Helen.