and insolent
the next, who raised her eyebrows and passed on when he wanted her, when
he was there longing for her? Those old solid dreams of his--wealth,
power, his name on great prospectuses, a position in the world--these
things now appeared like the day fancies of a child. He had seen his way
towards them. Already he had felt his feet upon the rungs of the ladder
which leads to material success. This was something different, something
greater. Then a sense of despair chilled his heart. He felt how
ignorant, how helpless he was. He had not even studied the first
text-book of life. Those very qualities which had served him so well
before were hopeless here. Persistence, Beatrice had told him once, only
annoys a woman.

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 he