He came to a standstill outside the entrance to the Milan Court, and retraced his steps.  The thought of Beatrice had brought something soothing with it.  He felt that he must see her, see her at once.  He walked back along the Strand and entered the restaurant where Beatrice and he had had their memorable supper.  From the vestibule he could just see Grier’s back as he stood talking to a waiter by the side of a round table in the middle of the room.  Tavernake slowly withdrew and made his way upstairs.  There were one or two little tables there in the balcony, hidden from the lower part of the room.  He seated himself at one, handing his coat and hat mechanically to the waiter who came hurrying up.

“But, Monsieur,” the man explained, with a deprecating gesture, “these tables are all taken.”

Tavernake, who kept an account book in which he registered even his car fares, put five shillings in the man’s hand.

“This one I will have,” he said, firmly, and sat down.

The man looked at him and turned aside to speak to the head waiter.  They conversed together in whispers.  Tavernake took no notice.  His jaw was set.  Himself unseen, he was gazing steadfastly at that table below.  The head waiter shrugged his shoulders and departed; his other clients must be mollified.  There was a finality which was unanswerable about Tavernake’s methods.

Tavernake ate and drank what they brought to him, ate and drank and suffered.  Everything was as it had been that other night—­ the popping of corks, the soft music, the laughter of women, the pleasant, luxurious sense of warmth and gayety pervading the whole place.

It was all just the same, but this time he sat outside and looked on.  Beatrice was seated next Grier, and on her other side was a young man of the type which Tavernake detested, partly because it inspired him with a reluctant but insistent sense of inferiority.  The young man was handsome, tall, and thin.  His evening clothes fitted him perfectly, his studs and links were of the latest mode, his white tie arranged as though by the fingers of an artist.  And yet he was no tailor’s model.  A gentleman, beyond a doubt, Tavernake decided, watching grudgingly the courteous movement of his head, listening sometimes to his well-bred but rather languid voice.  Beatrice laughed often into his face.  She admired him, of course.  How could she help it!  Grier sat at her other side.  He, too, talked to her whenever he had the chance.  It was a new fever which Tavernake was tasting, a new fever burning in his blood.  He was jealous; he hated the whole party below.  In imagination he saw Elizabeth with her friends, supping most likely in that other, more resplendent restaurant, only a few yards away.  He imagined her the centre of every attention.  Without a doubt, she was looking at her neighbor as she had looked at him.  Tavernake bit his lip, frowning.  If he had had it in his power, in