“Well,” said Geoffrey leaning forward, as the haughty ministrant drifted away, “you haven’t changed a bit.  To look at, I mean.”

“No?” said Maud.

“You’re just the same.  I think I”—­he squinted down at his waistcoat—­“have put on a little weight.  I don’t know if you notice it?”

Maud shivered again.  He thought he had put on a little weight, and didn’t know if she had noticed it!  She was oppressed by the eternal melancholy miracle of the fat man who does not realize that he has become fat.

“It was living on the yacht that put me a little out of condition,” said Geoffrey.  “I was on the yacht nearly all the time since I saw you last.  The old boy had a Japanese cook and lived pretty high.  It was apoplexy that got him.  We had a great time touring about.  We were on the Mediterranean all last winter, mostly at Nice.”

“I should like to go to Nice,” said Maud, for something to say.  She was feeling that it was not only externally that Geoffrey had changed.  Or had he in reality always been like this, commonplace and prosaic, and was it merely in her imagination that he had been wonderful?

“If you ever go,” said Geoffrey, earnestly, “don’t fail to lunch at the Hotel Côte d’Azur.  They give you the most amazing selection of hors d’oeuvres you ever saw.  Crayfish as big as baby lobsters!  And there’s a fish—­I’ve forgotten it’s name, it’ll come back to me—­that’s just like the Florida pompano.  Be careful to have it broiled, not fried.  Otherwise you lose the flavour.  Tell the waiter you must have it broiled, with melted butter and a little parsley and some plain boiled potatoes.  It’s really astonishing.  It’s best to stick to fish on the Continent.  People can say what they like, but I maintain that the French don’t really understand steaks or any sort of red meat.  The veal isn’t bad, though I prefer our way of serving it.  Of course, what the French are real geniuses at is the omelet.  I remember, when we put in at Toulon for coal, I went ashore for a stroll, and had the most delicious omelet with chicken livers beautifully cooked, at quite a small, unpretentious place near the harbour.  I shall always remember it.”

The mourner returned, bearing a laden tray, from which she removed the funeral bakemeats and placed them limply on the table.  Geoffrey shook his head, annoyed.

“I particularly asked for plenty of butter on my toast!” he said.  “I hate buttered toast if there isn’t lots of butter.  It isn’t worth eating.  Get me a couple of pats, will you, and I’ll spread it myself.  Do hurry, please, before the toast gets cold.  It’s no good if the toast gets cold.  They don’t understand tea as a meal at these places,” he said to Maud, as the mourner withdrew.  “You have to go to the country to appreciate the real thing.  I remember we lay off Lyme Regis down Devonshire way, for a few days, and I went and had tea at a farmhouse there.  It was quite amazing!  Thick Devonshire cream and home-made jam and cakes of every kind.  This sort of thing here is just a farce.  I do wish that woman would make haste with that butter.  It’ll be too late in a minute.”