She coughed to attract attention, and then sighed.  “It’s terrible,” she declared, taking good care that her voice should travel across the table, “to see all these people being happy like this when there are millions in want.”

Marion set down her wine-glass with a movement that, though her hands were clever, seemed clumsy, so indifferent was she to the thing she handled and the place she put it in, and looked round the restaurant with eyes that were very like Richard’s, though they shone from bloodshot whites and were not so bright as his, nor so kind; nor so capable, Ellen felt sure, of losing all brilliance and becoming contemplative, passionate darkness.  She said in her rapid, inarticulate murmur, “They don’t strike me as being particularly happy.”

Ellen was taken aback, and said in the tones of a popular preacher, “Then what are they doing here—­feasting?”

“I suppose they’re here because it’s on the map and so are they,” she answered almost querulously.  “They’d go anywhere else if one told them it was where they ought to be.  Good children, most people.  Anxious to do the right thing.  Don’t you think?”

Ellen was unprepared for anything but agreement or reactionary argument from the old, and this was neither, but a subtlety that she left matched in degree her own though it was probably unsound; and to cover her emotions she lifted her glass to her lips.  But really wine was very horrid.  Her young mouth was convulsed.  And then she reminded herself that it could not be horrid, for all grown-up people like it, and that there had never been any occasion when it was more necessary for her to be grown-up, so she continued to drink.  Even after several mouthfuls she did not like it, but she was then interrupted by a soft exclamation from Mrs. Yaverland.

“My dear, this wine is abominable.  Don’t you find it terribly sour?”

“Well, I was thinking so,” said Ellen, “but I didn’t like to say.”

“It’s dreadful.  It must be corked.”

“Yes, I think it must,” said Ellen knowingly.

She called a waiter.  “Would you like to try some other wine?  I don’t think I will.  This has put me off for the night.  No?  Good.  Two lemon squashes, one very sweet.”

That was a good idea of Mrs. Yaverland’s.  The lemon squash was lovely when it came, and Ellen had time to drink it while they were eating the chicken, so that there was no competitive flavour to spoil the ice pudding.  While they were waiting for that Mrs. Yaverland smoothed her eyebrows once again, and gave her nails one more perfunctory polish, and opened her mouth to speak, but caught her breath and shut it again; and said, after a moment’s silence, “I hope I’ve ordered the right sort of pudding.  It’s so hard to remember all these irrelevant French names.  I wanted you to have the one with crystallised cherries.  Richard used to be very fond of it.”  She looked round the restaurant more lovingly.  “He liked this place when he was a boy.  We used to come here once or twice every holiday and go to a theatre afterwards.”