on, and the idea of it
was a stimulant. He went with her up to Finsbury Pavement and stopped at
a small Italian restaurant.

'Come in here and have some coffee,' he said, 'they have waiters here;
that'll be a change.'

Victoria followed him in. They sat at a marble topped table, flooded
with light by incandescent gas. In the glare the waiters seemed blacker,
smaller and more stunted than by the light of day. Their faces were
pallid, with a touch of green: their hair and moustaches were almost
blue black. Their energy was that of automata. Victoria looked at them,
melting with pity.

'There's a life for you,' said Farwell interpreting her look. 'Sixteen
hours' work a day in an atmosphere of stale food. For meals, plate
scourings. For sleep and time to get to it, eight hours. For living, the
rest of the day.'

'It's awful, awful,' said Victoria. 'They might as well be dead.'

'They will be soon,' said Farwell, 'but what does that matter? There are
plenty of waiters. In the shadow of the olive groves to-night in far off
Calabria, at the base of the vine-clad hills, couples are walking hand
in hand, with passion flashing in their eyes. Brown peasant boys are
clasping to their breast young girls with dark hair, white teeth, red
lips, hearts that beat and quiver with ecstasy. They tell a tale of love
and hope. So we shall not be short of waiters.'

'Why do you sneer at everything, Mr Farwell?' said Victoria. 'Can't you
see anything in life to make it worth while?'

'No, I cannot say I do. The pursuit of a living debars me from the
enjoyments that make living worth while. But never mind me: I am over
without having bloomed. I brought you here to talk of you, not of me.'

'Of me, Mr Farwell?' asked Victoria. 'What do you want to know?'

Farwell leant over the table, toyed with the sugar and helped himself to
a piece. Then without looking at her:

'What's the matter with you, Victoria?' he asked.

'Matter with me? What do you mean?' said Victoria, too disturbed to
notice the use of her Christian name.

The man scrutinised her carefully. 'You're ill,' he said. 'Don't
protest. You're thin; there are purple pockets under your eyes; your
underlip is twisted with pain, and you limp.'

Victoria felt a spasm of anger. There was still in her the ghost of
vanity. But she looked at Farwell before answering; there was gentleness
in his eyes.

'Well,' she said slowly, 'if you must know, perhaps there is something
wrong. Pa