George was greatly disappointed in Lois.  In the period before dinner his eyes had avoided her, and now, since they sat side by side, he could not properly see her without deliberately looking at her:  which he would not do.  She gave no manifestation.  She was almost glum.  Her French, though free, was markedly inferior to Laurencine’s.  She denied any interest in music.  George decided, with self-condemnation, that he had been deliberately creating in his own mind an illusion about her; on no other hypothesis could either his impatience to meet her to-night, or his disappointment at not meeting her on the night of the Cafe Royal dinner, be explained.  She was nothing, after all.  And he did not deeply care for Miss Irene Wheeler, whom he could watch at will.  She might be concealing something very marvellous, but she was dull, and she ignored the finer responsibilities of a hostess.  She collected many beautiful things; she had some knowledge of what they were; she must be interested in them—­or why should she trouble to possess them?  She must have taste.  And yet had she taste?  Was she interested in her environment?  A tone, a word, will create suspicion that the exhibition of expertise for hours cannot allay.  George did not like the Frenchman.  The Frenchman was about thirty—­small, thin, fair, with the worn face of the man who lives several lives at once.  He did not look kind; he did not look reliable; and he offered little evidence in support of Miss Wheeler’s ardent assertion that he had been everywhere, seen everything, read everything, done everything.  He assuredly had not, for example, read Verlaine, who was mentioned by Miss Wheeler.  Now George had read one or two poems of Verlaine, and thought them unique; hence he despised M. Defourcambault.  He could read French, in a way, but he was incapable of speaking a single word of it in the presence of compatriots; the least mono-syllable would have died on his lips.  He was absurdly envious of those who could speak two languages; he thought sometimes that he would prefer to be able to speak two languages than to do anything else in the world; not to be able to speak two languages humiliated him intensely; he decided to ‘take up French seriously’ on the morrow; but he had several times arrived at a similar decision.

If Lois was glum, George too was glum.  He wished he had not come to the dinner; he wished he could be magically transported to the solitude of his room at the club.  He slipped into a reverie about the Marguerite affair.  Nobody could have divined that scarcely twenty-four hours earlier he had played a principal part in a tragedy affecting his whole life.  He had borne the stroke better than he otherwise would have done for the simple reason that nobody knew of his trouble.  He had not to arrange his countenance for the benefit of people who were aware what was behind the countenance.  But also he was philosophical.  He recognized that the Marguerite affair was over.  She would never give way, and