"A private room and supper for two," he said to the man in the vestibule. "Take my coat," and he drew himself with obvious relief from the embrace of his huge coat. Julian and he said nothing more until they were sitting opposite to one another at a small oval table in a small and strongly decorated room, whose windows faced the Thames Embankment. The waiter uncorked a bottle of champagne with the air of one performing a religious rite. The electric light gleamed and a fire chased the frost from recollection. Julian had already forgotten what they had been talking about in the cab. The first sip of champagne swept the heavy meditativeness from him. But Valentine, unfolding his napkin slowly, and with his eyes on the menu, said:
"In what way is she something extraordinary?"
"H'm?" Julian muttered.
"Surely you can define it."
"What, Val?"
"The peculiarity of Cuckoo Bright that you laid so much stress on just now."
"Oh, yes, now I remember. No, I can't define it. How good this soup is.
The soup here—"
"Yes, yes; our coming here again and again to eat it proves our appreciation. Julian, do endeavour to answer my question. I am really interested to know exactly what it is that has taken you again to Marylebone Road."
Julian drank some more champagne. His eyes began to sparkle.
"Can you give a reason for everything you do?" he asked.