not help contrasting the anaemic faces, the narrow,
stooping shoulders of these youths with the solidly-built,
ruddy-cheeked men whom she had seen in Wiltshire. She was rapidly
losing her old powers of physical endurance; she felt exhausted, and
turned into the small Italian restaurant on the left, which she had
sometimes gone to when at "Dawes'."

"It hasn't changed one bit," she thought, as she entered and walked to
the inner room. There was the same bit of painted canvas at the further
end of the place, depicting nothing in particular. There were the same
shy, self-conscious, whispering couples seated at the marble-topped
tables, who, after critically looking over the soiled bill of fare,
would invariably order coffee, roll and butter, or, if times were good,
steak and fried potatoes. The same puffy Italian waiter stood by the
counter, holding, as of old, coffee-pot in one hand and milk-pot in the
other. Mavis always associated this man with the pots, which he never
relinquished; she remembered wondering if he slept, still holding them
in his grasp.

She ordered a veal cutlet and macaroni, for which the place was famous
among the epicures of "Dawes'." While it was being prepared, she
brought notepaper, envelope, and pencil from her bag, to write a short
note to Perigal.

The morning post had brought her a letter from him, which had enclosed
notes to the value of ten pounds towards the expenses of her enforced
stay in London. Her reply told him that, as she had enough for present
needs, she returned his money. She suggested that if he had no use for
it, he could put it towards the expenses of providing their home; that
she had arrived safely in London; that she was about to look for a
lodging. She ended with passionately affectionate wishes for his
wellbeing. When she had put the money and letter into the envelope, and
this into her bag, her meal was banged down before her. She ordered a
bottle of stout, for had she not to nourish another life beside her
own? After Mavis had finished, she did not feel in the least disposed
to go out. She sat back on the dingy plush seat, and enjoyed the
sensation of the food doing her good. It was seven o'clock when she
paid the waiter and joined the crowd now sauntering along Oxford
Street. She walked towards Regent Circus, hoping to find a post-office,
where she could get a stamp for Perigal's letter. She wondered if she
should go to church, if only for a few minutes, but decided