“It’s nice to see good old Keeves again,” remarked Miss Toombs, as she thrust a list of appetising foods under Mavis’s nose.

“I’m really not a bit hungry,” declared Mavis, who avoided looking at the toothsome-looking bread-rolls as far as her ravening hunger would permit.  She grasped the tablecloth to stop herself from attacking these.

“Got any real turtle soup?” asked Miss Toombs of the polyglot waiter who now stood beside the table.

“Mock turtle,” said the man, as he put his finger on this item in the menu card.

“Two oxtail soups,” Miss Toombs demanded.

“Apres?”

“Two stewed scallops, and after that some lamb cutlets, new potatoes, and asparagus.”

“Bon!  Next, meiss,” said the waiter, who began to think that the diner’s prodigality warranted an unusually handsome tip.

Miss Toombs ordered roast ducklings and peas, together with other things, which included a big bottle of Burgundy, the while Mavis stared at her wide-eyed, open-mouthed; the starving girl could scarcely believe her ears.

“Is it—­is it all true?” she murmured.

“Is what true?”

“Oh, meeting with you.”

“Why?  Have I altered much?”

It seemed a long time to Mavis till the soup was placed before her.  Even when its savoury appeal made her faint with longing, she said: 

“I’m—­I’m really not a bit—­”

She got no further.  She had taken a mouthful of the soup, to hold it for a few moments in her mouth.  She had no idea till then that it was possible to enjoy such delicious sensations.  Once her fast was broken, the floodgates of appetite were open.  She no longer made pretence of concealing her hunger; she would not have been able to if she had wished.  She swallowed great mouthfuls of food greedily, silently, ravenously; she ate so fast that once or twice she was in danger of choking.  If anyone had taken her food away, she would have fought to get it back.  Thus Mavis devoured course after course, unaware, careless that Miss Toombs herself was eating next to nothing, and was watching her with quiet satisfaction from the corners of her eyes.

At last, Mavis was satisfied.  She lay back silent and helpless on her plush seat, enjoying to the full the sensation of the rich, fat food nourishing her body.  She closed her eyes and was falling into a deep sleep.

“Have some coffee and brandy,” said Miss Toombs.

Mavis pulled herself together and drank the coffee.

“I’d give my soul for a cigarette,” murmured Mavis, as she began to feel more awake.

“Blow you!” complained Miss Toombs, as she signalled to the waiter.

Mavis looked at her surprised, when her hostess said: 

“You’re prettier than ever.  When I first saw you, I was delighted to think you were ‘going off.’”

Mavis, regardless what others might think of her, lit the cigarette.  Although she took deep, grateful puffs, which she wholly enjoyed, she soon let it go out; neither did she trouble to relight it, nor did she pay any attention to Miss Toombs’s remarks.  Mavis’s physical content was by no means reflected in her mind.  Her conscience was deeply troubled by the fact of her having, as it were, sailed with her benefactress under false colours.