The actor's sense went on growing in me as we took our places, and culminated in my high slightly-frowning downward survey of my menu card: Soup, Turbot and Lobster Sauce, Quenelles.—'Damnation!' I said under my breath. It was ludicrous!
I shivered: tightened my jaws, and in an instant thought: 'What foolery is this? I …' I might have been sitting, as I sat in my place that prize-giving day at Whittaker's, waiting for my turn, with my lips rather dry, and every now and then shivering as if a draught came upon me from an opened door. But Blake was dead. And Brooke was dead. And Mr. Cholmeley was dead.—And I raised my eyes and beheld this vision of fair youthfulness; with dark-gold hair whose floating outskirts were sunny, and deep slow eyes, and red lips ripe, and half-transparent teeth-tips, and soft sweet whiteness of the rounded throat whose thought was of the soft sweet white cool body. And all the while they talked, and ate from their plates, and I talked and ate from my plate, and the big swift quiet liveried dolls moved hither and thither and bent, ministering to us.
'You do not take wine?' he was saying.
'Nay,' I was answering, 'I love wine; wine that is yellow and foaming!' I could not, or would not, or did not see any face but his, bending with a mask's upward smile to me.
'But you refused to have any champagne just now?'
'My dear Rayne! ' she was saying, the beautiful, voluptuous young woman was saying (Corisande is her name. It sounds like a cleft pomegranate), 'but you really cannot mean …'
'I did not notice it,' I said, 'I will have some, if you please.'
And then from a gold-papered bottle-mouth out came the clear stream into the large round low glass, all foaming, but yellow as I lifted it up and drank it. I sat there, filled with the actor's sense, smiling, and bending and smiling, and smiling and bending and smiling and talking, and, in my deeper heart, in a sort of way, defied this devilry. I knew what they were saying, I knew what I was saying, although I have for-
