Then he remembered that he had not eaten, discovered that he was hungry, and ordered some sandwiches and beer.  Still staring, the figures began to differentiate themselves, although they all appeared, somehow, in perpetual motion; hurrying, though seated.  It was like gazing at a quivering cinematograph.  Here and there ribbons of smoke curled upward, adding volume to the blue cloud that hung over the tables, which in turn was dissipated in spots by the industrious electric fans.  Everywhere he looked he met the glances of women; even at the table next him, they were not so absorbed in their escorts as to be able to resist flinging him covert stares between the shrieks of laughter in which they intermittently indulged.  The cumulative effect of all these faces was intoxicating, and for a long time he was unable to examine closely any one group.  What he saw was a composite woman with flushed cheeks and soliciting eyes, becomingly gowned and hatted—­to the masculine judgment.  On the walls, heavily frescoed in the German style, he read, in Gothic letters: 

          “Wer liebt nicht Wein, Weib, and Gesang,
          Er bleibt ein Narr sein Leben lang.”

The waiter brought the sandwiches and beer, yet he did not eat.  In the middle distance certain figures began insistently to stand out,—­figures of women sitting alone wherever he looked he met a provoking gaze.  One woman, a little farther away than the rest, seemed determinedly bent on getting a nod of recognition, and it was gradually borne in upon Hodder’s consciousness that her features were familiar.  In avoiding her eyes he studied the men at the next table,—­or rather one of them, who loudly ordered the waiters about, who told brief anecdotes that were uproariously applauded; whose pudgy, bejewelled fingers were continually feeling for the bottle in the ice beside his chair, or nudging his companions with easy familiarity; whose little eyes, set in a heavy face, lighted now and again with a certain expression . . . . .

Suddenly Hodder pushed back his chair and got to his feet, overcome by a choking sensation like that of being, asphyxiated by foul gases.  He must get out at once, or faint.  What he had seen in the man’s eyes had aroused in him sheer terror, for it was the image of something in his own soul which had summarily gained supremacy and led him hither, unresisting, to its own abiding-place.  In vain he groped to reconstruct the process by which that other spirit—­which he would fain have believed his true spirit—­had been drugged and deadened in its very flight.

He was aware, as he still stood uncertainly beside the table, of the white-aproned waiter looking at him, and of some one else!—­the woman whose eyes had been fastened on him so persistently.  She was close beside him, speaking to him.

“Seems to me we’ve met before.”

He looked at her, at first uncomprehendingly, then with a dawning realization of her identity.  Even her name came to him, unexpectedly, —­Kate Marcy,—­the woman in the flat!