ARNAUD is already at the table, between screen and palm. And, there ensconced, the couple take their seats. Seeing them safely landed, the MANAGER, brisk and noiseless, moves away. In the corridor a lady in black, with a cloak falling open, seems uncertain whether to come in. She advances into the doorway. It is CLARE.
ARNAUD. [Pointing to the other table as he flies with dishes] Nice table, Madame.
CLARE moves to the corner of it. An artist in observation of his clients, ARNAUD takes in her face—very pale under her wavy, simply-dressed hair; shadowy beneath the eyes; not powdered; her lips not reddened; without a single ornament; takes in her black dress, finely cut, her arms and neck beautifully white, and at her breast three gardenias. And as he nears her, she lifts her eyes. It is very much the look of something lost, appealing for guidance.
ARNAUD. Madame is waiting for some one? [She shakes her head] Then
Madame will be veree well here—veree well. I take Madame's cloak?
He takes the cloak gently and lays it on the back of the chair fronting the room, that she may put it round her when she wishes. She sits down.
LANGUID VOICE. [From the corner] Waiter!
ARNAUD. Milord!
LANGUID VOICE. The Roederer.
ARNAUD. At once, Milord.
CLARE sits tracing a pattern with her finger on the cloth, her eyes lowered. Once she raises them, and follows ARNAUD's dark rapid figure.