n.

MANAGER. [Blandly] Gaddesdon Hunt, my lord--always have their
supper with us, Derby night. Quiet corner here, my lord. Arnaud!

ARNAUD is already at the table, between screen and palm. And,
there ensconced, the couple take their seats. Seeing them
safely landed, the MANAGER, brisk and noiseless, moves away. In
the corridor a lady in black, with a cloak falling open, seems
uncertain whether to come in. She advances into the doorway.
It is CLARE.

ARNAUD. [Pointing to the other table as he flies with dishes] Nice
table, Madame.

CLARE moves to the corner of it. An artist in observation of
his clients, ARNAUD takes in her face--very pale under her wavy,
simply-dressed hair; shadowy beneath the eyes; not powdered; her
lips not reddened; without a single ornament; takes in her black
dress, finely cut, her arms and neck beautifully white, and at
her breast three gardenias. And as he nears her, she lifts her
eyes. It is very much the look of something lost, appealing for
guidance.

ARNAUD. Madame is waiting for some one? [She shakes her head] Then
Madame will be veree well here--veree well. I take Madame's cloak?

He takes the cloak gently and lays it on the back of the chair
fronting the room, that she may put it round her when she
wishes. She sits down.

LANGUID VOICE. [From the corner] Waiter!

ARNAUD. Milord!

LANGUID VOICE. The Roederer.

ARNAUD. At once, Milord.

CLARE sits tracing a pattern with her finger on the cloth, her
eyes lowered. Once she raises them, and follows ARNAUD's dark
rapid figure.

ARNAUD. [Returning] Madame feels the 'eat? [He scans her with
increased curiosity] You wish something, Madame?

CLARE. [Again giving him that look] Must I order?

ARNAUD. Non, Madame, it is not necessary. A glass of water. [He
pours it out] I have not the pleasure of knowing Madame's face.

CLARE. [Faintly smiling] No.

ARNAUD. Madame will find it veree good 'ere, veree quiet.

LANGUID VOICE. Waiter!

ARNAUD. Pardon! [He goes]

The bare-necked ladies with large hats again pass down the
corridor outside, and again their voices are wafted in: "Tottie!
Not she! Oh! my goodness, she has got a pride on her!"
"Bobbie'll never stick it!" "Look here, dear----" Galvanized
by those sounds, CLARE has caught her cloak and half-risen; they