When it was over they went out with the crowd.  The January day was done, but it was bewildering for all that to come out into real life.  There was no romance for the moment on the stained street, and in the passing traffic.  The gold braid of the hall commissionaire looked tawdry, and the pictures of ballet-girls but vulgar.  It is the common experience, but each time one feels it there is a new surprise.  Julie had her own remedy: 

“The liveliest tea-room you can find, Peter,” she demanded.

“It will be hard to beat our own,” said Peter.

“Well, away there, then; let’s get back to a band again, anyhow.”

The great palm-lounge was full of people, and for a few minutes it did not seem as if they would find seats; but then Julie espied a half-empty table, and they made for it.  It stood away back in a corner, with two wicker armchairs before it, and, behind, a stationary lounge against the wall overhung by a huge palm.  The lounge was occupied.  “We’ll get in there presently,” whispered Peter, and they took the chairs, thankful in the crowded place to get seated at all.

“Oh, it was topping, Peter,” said Julie.  “I love a great place like that.  I almost wish we had had dress-circle seats or stalls out amongst the people.  But I don’t know; that box was delicious.  Did you see how that old fossil in front kept looking round?  I made eyes at him once, deliberately—­you know, like this,” and she looked sideways at Peter with subtle invitation just hinted in her eyes.  “I thought he would have apoplexy—­I did, really.”

“It’s a good thing I didn’t notice, Julie.  Even now I should hate to see you look like that, say, at Donovan.  You do it too well.  Oh, here’s the tea.  Praise the Lord!  I’m dying for a cup.  You can have all the cakes; I’ve smoked too much.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer a whisky?”

“No, not now—­afterwards.  What’s that they’re playing?”

They listened, Julie seemingly intent, and Peter, who soon gave up the attempt to recognise the piece, glanced sideways at the couple on the lounge.  They did not notice him.  He took them both in and caught—­he could not help it—­a few words.

She was thirty-five, he guessed, slightly made-up, but handsome and full figured, a woman of whom any man might have been proud.  He was an officer, in Major’s uniform, and he was smoking a cigarette impatiently and staring down the lounge.  She, on the other hand, had her eyes fixed on him as if to read every expression on his face, which was heavy and sullen and mutinous.

“Is that final, then, George?” she said.

“I tell you I can’t help it; I promised I’d dine with Carstairs to-night.”

A look swept across her face.  Peter could not altogether read it.  It was not merely anger, or pique, or disappointment; it certainly was not merely grief.  There was all that in it, but there was more.  And she said—­he only just caught the sentence of any of their words, but there was the world of bitter meaning in it: