He had turned into a restaurant in the Haymarket, to which on their rare visits to town, he had once taken Madge to dine.
With the sentimental idea at which he scarcely smiled, of finding the exact place they had on that occasion occupied, he went upstairs, and was glad to find the table in the corner disengaged. He had given his order to the waiter, before seated at some little distance across the room, he saw the man he recognized.
For the moment he was puzzled, then like a flash came the memory of a dinner party at Fairholme Court six months ago, and with it in a flood the further memory of other things he had for the moment forgotten.
Monsieur Fontenelle apparently did not see him, but apart from the fact that he had liked him, Dr. Dakin was quite determined to recall their previous meeting to his consciousness.
Madge had sometimes mentioned him in letters. If he had recently come from Paris, he would have news of her. He left his place and crossed to his neighbour’s table, with outstretched hand.
“We met at a very pleasant little dinner at Fairholme Court, some months ago,” he began. “My name is Dakin. I expect you’ve forgotten it. Yours is a name one can’t forget.”
Fontenelle gave him a hasty glance; then took the hand he offered, with a charming smile.
“But of course! When Miss Page was our hostess. Have you heard from her lately? I am told she is coming back.”
“Won’t you come to my table, as we have neither of us begun to feed?” suggested Dr. Dakin. “It’s quieter there. Out of the draught.”
“Delighted!” François assured him.