VII
“You are a quiet old boy, aren’t you?” whispered Miss Esme.
Wynne started and raised his head.
“What—what’s that?”
“I say you are quiet.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Funny old boy!”
He called a waiter.
“Get me some more cigarettes—these little boxes hold none at all.”
“You smoke too much.”
He played with a cold cigarette-end upon his plate.
“You simply haven’t stopped.”
“What?”
“I say”—she whispered it—“isn’t it lovely being down here—just we two?”
“Um.”
He crumbled a piece of bread, then swept the crumbs to the floor. He shot a quick glance at her, lowered his eyes, picked up the cigarette-end again, and drew with it upon his plate.
“I say—”
“Wish that waiter would do what he is told.”
Esme sighed and stole a shy glance at the clock.
“Isn’t it getting late?”
“Is it? I don’t know—I’m a late person. Ah, that’s better!”
He took the cigarettes from the waiter and lighted one.
When the man had gone, Esme remarked:
“Everybody seems to be going away. Nobody left soon—but us.”
“H’m.”
“I love Brighton. Don’t you love the sea? I do—and the hills—oh, I love the hills!”
Quite suddenly Wynne said:
“Must you talk such a lot?”
“Oh,” said Esme, “you old cross patch.”
A party of people at a round table in the centre of the room rose and moved toward the door.