“Fetch me,” I said, “a Virginian cigarette and a sherry and bitters.”

A true gourmet would probably shudder at such a first course, but it must be remembered that for three years my taste had had no opportunity of becoming over-trained.  Besides, in matters of this sort I always act on the principle that it’s better to enjoy oneself than to be artistically correct.

Lying back in my chair I looked out over the little restaurant with a sensation of beautiful complacency.  The soft rose-shaded lamps threw a warm glamour over everything, and through the delicate blue spirals of my cigarette I could just see the laughing face of a charmingly pretty girl who was dining with an elderly man at the opposite table.  I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece.  It was close on eight—­the hour when the cell lights at Princetown are turned out, and another dragging night of horror and darkness begins.  Slowly and luxuriously I sipped my sherry and bitters.

I was aroused from my reverie by the approach of M. Gaultier, who carried a menu in his hand.

He handed me the card with another bow, and then stepped back as though to watch the result.  This was the dinner: 

Clear soup.

Grilled salmon.

Lamb.  New potatoes.

Woodcock.

Peche Melba.

Marrow on Toast.

I read it through, enjoying each separate word, and then, with a faint sigh, handed it back to him.

“Heaven,” I said, “was undoubtedly at the conference.”

M. Gaultier picked up a wine list from the table.  “And what will Monsieur drink?” he inquired reverently.

“Monsieur,” I replied, “has perfect faith in your judgment.  He will drink everything you choose to give him.”

Half an hour later I again lay back in my chair, and lapped in a superb contentment gently murmured to myself those two delightful lines of Sydney Smith’s—­

“Serenely calm, the epicure may say: 
Fate cannot harm me, I have dined today.”

I sipped my Turkish coffee, lighted the fragrant Cabana which M. Gaultier had selected for me, and debated cheerfully with myself what I should do next.  I had had so many unpleasant evenings since my trial that I was determined that this one at all events should be a complete success.

My first impulse of course was to visit George.  There was something very engaging in the thought of being ushered into his presence by a respectable butler, and making my excuses for having called at such an unreasonable hour.  I pictured to myself how he would look as I gradually dropped my assumed voice, and very slowly the almost incredible truth began to dawn on him.

So charming was the idea that it was only with some reluctance I was able to abandon it.  I didn’t want to waste George:  he had to last me at least three days, and I felt that if I went down there now, warmed and exhilarated with wine and food, I should be almost certain to give myself away.  I had no intention of doing that until the last possible moment.  I still had a sort of faint irrational hope that by watching George without betraying my identity, I might discover something which would throw a little light on his behaviour to me.