Clare.  Everything has a beginning, hasn’t it?

     [She drinks.  The young man stares at her]

Young man. [Floundering in these waters deeper than he had bargained for] I say—­about things having beginnings—­did you mean anything?

     [Clare nods]

Young man.  What!  D’you mean it’s really the first——?

     Clare nods.  The champagne has flicked her courage.

Young man.  By George! [He leans back] I’ve often wondered.

Arnaud. [Again filling the glasses] Monsieur finds——­

Young man. [Abruptly] It’s all right.

     He drains his glass, then sits bolt upright.  Chivalry and the
     camaraderie of class have begun to stir in him.

Young man.  Of course I can see that you’re not—­I mean, that you’re a—­a lady. [Clare smiles] And I say, you know—­if you have to—­ because you’re in a hole—­I should feel a cad.  Let me lend you——?

Clare. [Holding up her glass] ‘Le vin est tire, il faut le boire’!

She drinks.  The French words, which he does not too well understand, completing his conviction that she is a lady, he remains quite silent, frowning.  As Clare held up her glass, two gentlemen have entered.  The first is blond, of good height and a comely insolence.  His crisp, fair hair, and fair brushed-up moustache are just going grey; an eyeglass is fixed in one of two eyes that lord it over every woman they see; his face is broad, and coloured with air and wine.  His companion is a tall, thin, dark bird of the night, with sly, roving eyes, and hollow cheeks.  They stand looking round, then pass into the further room; but in passing, they have stared unreservedly at Clare.

Young man. [Seeing her wince] Look here!  I’m afraid you must feel me rather a brute, you know.

Clare.  No, I don’t; really.

Young man.  Are you absolute stoney? [Clare nods] But [Looking at her frock and cloak] you’re so awfully well——­

Clare.  I had the sense to keep them.

Young man. [More and more disturbed] I say, you know—­I wish you’d let me lend you something.  I had quite a good day down there.

Clare. [Again tracing her pattern on the cloth—­then looking up at him full] I can’t take, for nothing.

Young man.  By Jove!  I don’t know-really, I don’t—­this makes me feel pretty rotten.  I mean, it’s your being a lady.

Clare. [Smiling] That’s not your fault, is it?  You see, I’ve been beaten all along the line.  And I really don’t care what happens to me. [She has that peculiar fey look on her face now] I really don’t; except that I don’t take charity.  It’s lucky for me it’s you, and not some——­