He took her to a smart but quiet restaurant that was mostly used by city men wishing to lunch unobtrusively with their secretaries, and they were lucky enough to find a corner table. At first he found conversation a little difficult; the waiter was so slow bringing the dishes. There were uncomfortable pauses in their talk. But by the time they had finished their fish, and drunk a little wine, Roland's nervousness had passed. It was a delight to look at her, a delight to listen to the soft intonations of her voice; and here in the quiet intimacy of the restaurant he was able to appreciate even more acutely than at Hogstead the mystery and romance that surrounded her. The pathos of her life was actual to him; they were discussing a new novel that had been much praised, but of which she had complained a falsity to life.
"But then you are so different from the rest of us," he had said.
"Ah, don't say that," she replied quickly. "I'm so anxious to be the same as all of you, to live your life and share your interests. It's so lonely being different."
She made him talk of himself, of his hopes and his ambitions. And he told her that in two days' time he would be going abroad.
"In the middle of August! Before the cricket season's over! What horrid luck!"
"Oh, no, I wanted to go," said Roland. "I was getting tired of things. I wanted a change."
She looked at him with curiosity, a new interest for him in her deep dove-coloured eyes.
"You, too!" she said.
"I don't know what it is," Roland continued. "I feel restless; I feel I must break loose. It's all the same, one day after another, and what does it lead to?"