mately, some in the vapid chance
of acquaintanceship, will in one moment be held by the sight of a
certain face. The table of affinities is the only attempt at
regulating the matter, and in these changing times one cannot look
even upon that with confidence.

There is a law, however, whatever it may be, and in unconscious
obedience to it, Traill kept the face of Sally Bishop persistently
before him. After she had left him at Knightsbridge, he too descended
from the 'bus and walked slowly back to Piccadilly Circus.

Casting his eyes round the circle of houses with their brilliant
illuminations, he decided, with no anticipation of entertainment,
where to dine. A meal is a ceremony of boredom when it has no
pleasurable prospect. Indeed, the gratification of any appetite
becomes a sordid affair when the mind is stagnant and the body merely
asking for its food. But in the last three years, Traill had gone
through this same performance a thousand times; a thousand times he
had looked out of the little circular window on the top floor of the
house in Lower Regent Street where he lived; a thousand times he had
taken a coin out of his pocket and let the head or the tail decide
between the two restaurants which he most usually frequented.

On this night there was no tossing of a coin. He had not even so much
interest in the meal as that. Making his way across the Circus, he
entered a restaurant in Shaftesbury Avenue, and passed down the
stairs to the grill-room.

The music, the lights, the haze of smoke and the scent of food were
depressing. The whole atmosphere rolled forward to meet him as he
came through the doors. He had no subtle temperament. It did not
offend his imagination, but it sickened his senses, even though he
knew that in five minutes he would be eating with the rest and the
atmosphere would have taken upon itself a false semblance of
normality.

All the tables had one occupant or another. He was forced to seat
himself at the same table with some man and a girl, who were already
half through their meal. He did so with apologies, quite aware of
the annoyance he was causing. But he was not sensitive. He had the
right to a seat at the table. The rules of the restaurant offered
no restrictions. With it all, he was British.

"Hope you'll excuse my intrusion," he said shortly.

The man, a clerk, with slavery written legibly across his face,
offered some mumbled acceptance of the inevitable. Traill himself
would