[He is away again to his service-table.]
YOUNG MAN. [Burying his face in the carnations] I say—these are jolly, aren't they? They do you pretty well here.
CLARE. Do they?
YOUNG MAN. You've never been here? [CLARE shakes her head] By Jove! I thought I didn't know your face. [CLARE looks full at him. Again something moves in the YOUNG MAN, and he stammers] I mean—not——
CLARE. It doesn't matter.
YOUNG MAN. [Respectfully] Of course, if I—if you were waiting for anybody, or anything—I——
[He half rises]
CLARE. It's all right, thank you.
The YOUNG MAN sits down again, uncomfortable, nonplussed. There is silence, broken by the inaudible words of the languid lord, and the distant merriment of the supper-party. ARNAUD brings the plovers' eggs.
YOUNG MAN. The wine, quick.