"This is delightful," she said smiling, as a band began to play a selection from a favourite opera in a subdued yet fascinating style. Then a waiter came up, obsequious, as with an instinct born of experience he detected a couple above the average of their ordinary patrons, and after a brief colloquy with him, Vansittart offered her the menu, and seated himself opposite to await her choice.
"It is difficult to think of eating with that music going on," she said, feeling as if in the enchanted atmosphere coarse food was a vulgar item; and her selection was a slight one--oysters, chicken cutlets, iced pudding. Vansittart, possessed of an honest appetite when dinner time came round, felt compelled to supplement it with an order on his own account. "You do not want me to be starved, I know," he gaily said, as the man departed on his errand.
The music played, the fountain's tinkle mingled with the hum of many voices, the footfalls, the clinking of glass and china. Then the dramatic critic and another man took the table a little on one side, near to them. Joan met an admiring glance from a pair of intelligent eyes. The oysters were fresh, and some clear soup Vansittart had ordered seemed to "pick her up" so much that she resolved to force herself to eat for the future.
"I shall fight the horrors of my life better if I do not fast," she told herself, immediately afterwards chiding herself almost angrily for recurring to her "dead miseries." With a certain desperation born of the discovery that she had not cast the skin of her experiences on the threshold, she set herself to court oblivion by plunging violently into present sensations. She laughed and talked, ate, drank champagne, and Vansittart, opposite, gazed at her with admiring beatitude. Joan's lovely neck, alabaster white as it rose from her square-cut black dress, her delicately-tinted oval face with its perfect features, now brightened by her temporary gaiety, her great dark eyes, gleaming with subdued, if incandescent fire, her halo of golden hair--all were items in the general effect of radiant beauty. Vansittart hardly knew what she was talking about; he felt that the dreamy music discoursed by the little orchestra below was a fitting accompaniment to the melody of her delightful speaking voice, that was all. He was plunged in a perfect rhapsody of self-gratulation. And she? Her suspicions were as alert as ever. She saw he was in a "brown study," and, although his eyes looked dreamy ecstasy into hers, and a vague smile of as vague a content hovered about his lips, she would rather he lived outside himself. She herself was trying madly to live in externals--to stifle thought!
"What are you thinking about?" she asked, leaning forward.
"You!" he said passionately. "How can I think about anything else with you there opposite me?"
"Hush, the waiter is listening," she said. But just at that moment the waiter was aroused by the dramatic critic and his friend rising and pushing back their chairs, and went forward to help them assume their light overcoats.
"Your friend is going, and you have not introduced him to me," said Joan.
"I will," said he, and, abruptly joining the departing men, he brought back the critic, in no wise reluctant.
"Mr. Clement Hunt--Miss Thorne, very soon to be Lady Vansittart," he said.