He was looking at the _entrée_ with interest and a slight suspicion. "What is this?" "Curried chicken." "Oh." He helped himself fastidiously to curried chicken, tasted it with delicate deliberation, and left it on his plate. "You are wise," said he. "There is a certain crude, unsatisfying simplicity about this repast." "Didn't I tell you?" "You did." "You see now why I said you'd better go to the Métropole?" "I do indeed." An admirable joint of mutton, cheese, coffee and a liqueur effaced the painful impression made by the _entrée_. By nine o'clock Marston declared himself inured to the hardships of the Cliff Hotel. "How long can you stay?" she asked. The question had been burning in her for two hours. "Well, over the week end, I think." Her heart, that had fluttered like a bird, sank, as a bird sinks in terror with wings tight shut. "Have you got to go up to town to-morrow?" "I have, worse luck. How do the trains go from this godforsaken place?" "About every two hours. What sort of train do you want? An early one?" "Rather. Got to be at Whitehall by twelve." "Will the nine-fifteen do?" "Yes; that's all right." The wings of her heart loosened. It rose light, as if air, not blood, flowed from its chambers. The Lucys were never by any chance down before nine. Robert would not meet him. He sat down in the chair opposite her, with his eyes fixed on her as she leaned back in the corner of the sofa. He settled himself in comfort, crossing his legs and thrusting out one foot, defined under a delicate silk sock, in an attitude that was almost contemptuous of Kitty's presence. Kitty's face was innocent of any perception of these shades. He drew the long breath of ease and smiled at her again, a smile that intimated how thoroughly he approved of her personal appearance. "Ye--es," he said, "you're different, but I think you're almost as pretty as you were." "Am I?" she said. "What did you expect?" "I didn't expect anything. I never do. It's my scheme for avoiding disappointment. Is your head better?" "No; it's aching abominably." "Sorry. But it's rather hard lines for me, isn't it? I wish you _could_ have chosen some other time to be ill in." "What does it matter whether I'm ill or not, if I'm not pretty?" He smiled again. "I don't mean, child, that you're ever not pretty." "Thank you. I know exactly how pretty I am." "Do you? How pretty do you think you are now?" "Not half as pretty as Dora Nicholson. You know exactly how pretty she is."