There was something about supper at an expensive restaurant which had always appealed to Henry's imagination. Earnest devourer as he was of the solids of literature, he had tasted from time to time its lighter face--those novels which begin with the hero supping in the midst of the glittering throng and having his attention attracted to a distinguished-looking elderly man with a grey imperial who is entering with a girl so strikingly beautiful that the revellers turn, as she passes, to look after her. And then, as he sits and smokes, a waiter comes up to the hero and, with a soft '_Pardon, m'sieu!_' hands him a note. The atmosphere of Geisenheimer's suggested all that sort of thing to Henry. They had finished supper, and he was smoking a cigar--his second that day. He leaned back in his chair and surveyed the scene. He felt braced up, adventurous. He had that feeling, which comes to all quiet men who like to sit at home and read, that this was the sort of atmosphere in which he really belonged. The brightness of it all--the dazzling lights, the music, the hubbub, in which the deep-throated gurgle of the wine-agent surprised while drinking soup blended with the shriller note of the chorus-girl calling to her mate--these things got Henry. He was thirty-six next birthday, but he felt a youngish twenty-one. A voice spoke at his side. Henry looked up, to perceive Sidney Mercer. The passage of a year, which had turned Henry into a married man, had turned Sidney Mercer into something so magnificent that the spectacle for a moment deprived Henry of speech. Faultless evening dress clung with loving closeness to Sidney's lissom form. Gleaming shoes of perfect patent leather covered his feet. His light hair was brushed back into a smooth sleekness on which the electric lights shone like stars on some beautiful pool. His practically chinless face beamed amiably over a spotless collar. Henry wore blue serge. 'What are you doing here, Henry, old top?' said the vision. 'I didn't know you ever came among the bright lights.' His eyes wandered off to Minnie. There was admiration in them, for Minnie was looking her prettiest. 'Wife,' said Henry, recovering speech. And to Minnie: 'Mr Mercer. Old friend.' 'So you're married? Wish you luck. How's the bank?' Henry said the bank was doing as well as could be expected. 'You still on the stage?' Mr Mercer shook his head importantly. 'Got better job. Professional dancer at this show. Rolling in money. Why aren't you dancing?' The words struck a jarring note. The lights and the music until that moment had had a subtle psychological effect on Henry, enabling him to hypnotize himself into a feeling that it was not inability to dance that kept him in his seat, but that he had had so much of that sort of thing that he really preferred to sit quietly and look on for a change. Sidney's question changed all that. It made him face the truth. 'I don't dance.'