She did not see that Hewet kept looking at her across the gangway, between the figures of waiters hurrying past with plates.  He was inattentive, and Hirst was finding him also very cross and disagreeable.  They had touched upon all the usual topics—­upon politics and literature, gossip and Christianity.  They had quarrelled over the service, which was every bit as fine as Sappho, according to Hewet; so that Hirst’s paganism was mere ostentation.  Why go to church, he demanded, merely in order to read Sappho?  Hirst observed that he had listened to every word of the sermon, as he could prove if Hewet would like a repetition of it; and he went to church in order to realise the nature of his Creator, which he had done very vividly that morning, thanks to Mr. Bax, who had inspired him to write three of the most superb lines in English literature, an invocation to the Deity.

“I wrote ’em on the back of the envelope of my aunt’s last letter,” he said, and pulled it from between the pages of Sappho.

“Well, let’s hear them,” said Hewet, slightly mollified by the prospect of a literary discussion.

“My dear Hewet, do you wish us both to be flung out of the hotel by an enraged mob of Thornburys and Elliots?” Hirst enquired.  “The merest whisper would be sufficient to incriminate me for ever.  God!” he broke out, “what’s the use of attempting to write when the world’s peopled by such damned fools?  Seriously, Hewet, I advise you to give up literature.  What’s the good of it?  There’s your audience.”

He nodded his head at the tables where a very miscellaneous collection of Europeans were now engaged in eating, in some cases in gnawing, the stringy foreign fowls.  Hewet looked, and grew more out of temper than ever.  Hirst looked too.  His eyes fell upon Rachel, and he bowed to her.

“I rather think Rachel’s in love with me,” he remarked, as his eyes returned to his plate.  “That’s the worst of friendships with young women—­they tend to fall in love with one.”

To that Hewet made no answer whatever, and sat singularly still.  Hirst did not seem to mind getting no answer, for he returned to Mr. Bax again, quoting the peroration about the drop of water; and when Hewet scarcely replied to these remarks either, he merely pursed his lips, chose a fig, and relapsed quite contentedly into his own thoughts, of which he always had a very large supply.  When luncheon was over they separated, taking their cups of coffee to different parts of the hall.

From his chair beneath the palm-tree Hewet saw Rachel come out of the dining-room with the Flushings; he saw them look round for chairs, and choose three in a corner where they could go on talking in private.  Mr. Flushing was now in the full tide of his discourse.  He produced a sheet of paper upon which he made drawings as he went on with his talk.  He saw Rachel lean over and look, pointing to this and that with her finger.  Hewet unkindly compared Mr. Flushing, who was extremely