Oliver saw him, and beamed and raised her glass. He rose and bowed with mock solemnity.
Dancing had not begun. Apparently the lions were to sing for their supper.
An author read a short play, which he explained had been suppressed by the censor. To Mendel it sounded very mild and foolish. It was a tragedy, but no one was moved; the audience much preferred the music-hall comedian, who followed with a song about a series of mishaps to his trousers.
The same reedy-voiced poet recited the same poem as before, and the same foolish girl sang the same foolish song, and it looked as though the programme would never end.
Mendel was irritated and bored, and called for champagne.
“Waiter!”
But the waiter did not hear him.
“You don’t want any champagne,” said Morrison.
“Waiter!”
The door by them opened and Logan slipped in. He was almost a shadow of his old self. The plump flesh had gone from his face, which was all eyes and bones. He looked famished. His eyes swept round the room, and, fastening on Oliver, lit up with a gleam of satisfaction. He was like a starving man looking at a nice pink ham in a shop window. He moved swiftly towards her, but stopped on seeing the men she was with and swerved to a table a few yards behind her. From where Mendel was sitting it looked as though he were peering over her shoulder, an evil, menacing face.