d of the room, might all have been
matched in a dozen similar establishments within hail of a cab-whistle.
Its gelatine-written menu-cards announced that one might dine there _a
la carte_ or _table d'hote_ for two shillings. Neither the cooking nor
the service had influenced Romarin in his choice of a place to dine at.

He made a gesture to the waiter who advanced to help him on with his coat
that Marsden was to be assisted first; but Marsden, with a grunted "All
right," had already helped himself. A glimpse of the interior of the coat
told Romarin why Marsden kept waiters at arm's-length. A little twinge of
compunction took him that his own overcoat should be fur-collared and
lined with silk.

They sat down at a corner table not far from the slowly moving
four-bladed propeller.

"Now we can talk," Romarin said. "I'm glad, glad to see you again,
Marsden."

It was a peculiarly vicious face that he saw, corrugated about the brows,
and with stiff iron-grey hair untrimmed about the ears. It shocked
Romarin a little; he had hardly looked to see certain things so
accentuated by the passage of time. Romarin's own brow was high and bald
and benign, and his beard was like a broad shield of silver.

"You're glad, are you?" said Marsden, as they sat down facing one
another. "Well, I'm glad--to be seen with you. It'll revive my credit a
bit. There's a fellow across there has recognised you already by your
photographs in the papers.... I assume I may...?"

He made a little upward movement of his hand. It was a gin and
bitters Marsden assumed he might have. Romarin ordered it; he himself
did not take one. Marsden tossed down the _aperitif_ at one gulp; then
he reached for his roll, pulled it to pieces, and--Romarin remembered
how in the old days Marsden had always eaten bread like that--began to
throw bullets of bread into his mouth. Formerly this habit had irritated
Romarin intensely; now ... well, well, Life uses some of us better than
others. Small blame to these if they throw up the struggle. Marsden, poor
devil ... but the arrival of the soup interrupted Romarin's meditation.
He consulted the violet-written card, ordered the succeeding courses, and
the two men ate for some minutes in silence.

"Well," said Romarin presently, pushing away his plate and wiping his
white moustache, "are you still a Romanticist, Marsden?"

Marsden, who had tucked his napkin between two of the buttons of his
frayed waistcoat, looked suspicio