“Home, please,” Berenice said calmly. “Good-by, Mr. Matravers.”
“Good night.”
The carriage rolled away. At the corner of the street Berenice pulled the check-string. “The Milan Restaurant,” she told the man briefly.
Matravers and Ellison lit their cigarettes and strolled away on foot. At the corner of the street Ellison had an inspiration.
“Let us,” he said, “have some supper somewhere.”
Matravers shook his head.
“I really have a great deal of work to do,” he said, “and I must write this notice for the Day. I think that I will go straight home.”
Ellison thrust his arm through his companion’s, and called a hansom.
“It will only take us half an hour,” he declared, “and we will go to one of the fashionable places. You will be amused! Come! It all enters, you know, into your revised scheme of life—the attainment of a fuller and more catholic knowledge of your fellow-creatures. We will see our fellow-creatures en fête.”
Matravers suffered himself to be persuaded. They drove to a restaurant close at hand, and stood for a moment at the entrance looking for seats. The room was crowded.