towards the further room, stops in the doorway, and looks back at her.  Her eyes have just been lifted, and are at once cast down again.  The young man wavers, catches ARNAUD’s eye, jerks his head to summon him, and passes into the further room.  Arnaud takes up the vase that has been superseded, and follows him out.  And Clare sits alone in silence, broken by the murmurs of the languid lord and his partner, behind the screen.  She is breathing as if she had been running hard.  She lifts her eyes.  The tall young man, divested of hat and coat, is standing by her table, holding out his hand with a sort of bashful hardiness.

Young man.  How d’you do?  Didn’t recognize you at first.  So sorry —­awfully rude of me.

     Clare’s eyes seem to fly from him, to appeal to him, to resign
     herself all at once.  Something in the young man responds.  He
     drops his hand.

Clare. [Faintly] How d’you do?

Young man. [Stammering] You—­you been down there to-day?

Clare.  Where?

Young man. [With a smile] The Derby.  What?  Don’t you generally go down? [He touches the other chair] May I?

Clare. [Almost in a whisper] Yes.

     As he sits down, Arnaud returns and stands before them.

Arnaud.  The plovers’ eggs veree good to-night, Sare.  Veree good, Madame.  A peach or two, after.  Veree good peaches.  The Roederer, Sare—­not bad at all.  Madame likes it frappe, but not too cold—­yes?

     [He is away again to his service-table.]

Young man. [Burying his face in the carnations] I say—­these are jolly, aren’t they?  They do you pretty well here.

Clare.  Do they?

Young man.  You’ve never been here? [Clare shakes her head] By Jove!  I thought I didn’t know your face. [Clare looks full at him.  Again something moves in the young man, and he stammers] I mean—­not——­

Clare.  It doesn’t matter.

Young man. [Respectfully] Of course, if I—­if you were waiting for anybody, or anything—­I——­

     [He half rises]

Clare.  It’s all right, thank you.

The young man sits down again, uncomfortable, nonplussed.  There is silence, broken by the inaudible words of the languid lord, and the distant merriment of the supper-party.  Arnaud brings the plovers’ eggs.

Young man.  The wine, quick.

Arnaud.  At once, Sare.

Young man. [Abruptly] Don’t you ever go racing, then?

Clare.  No.

     [Arnaud pours out champagne]

Young man.  I remember awfully well my first day.  It was pretty thick—­lost every blessed bob, and my watch and chain, playin’ three cards on the way home.