in fact. He would indulge her by going to the smoking-room as soon as he had finished. In spite of this decision, he continued to watch her covertly, noticing how little she ate. He himself was eating practically nothing; he had no appetite. Had they both caught a chill? What was the waiter thinking as he took away plates containing food little more than tasted? It was like a Charles Dana Gibson picture, but for the absence of the little cupid with an arrow fitted to his bow.
It was ridiculous.
Beresford pushed back his chair with some ostentation and walked towards the door. She had spoiled the soup, rendered insipid the fish and made detestably unpalatable the joint—in short she had spoiled everything. He would take coffee in the smoking-room, there was a large fire there and—it was strange how thoroughly chilled he was. Yes, he would clear out, perhaps she would breakfast early in the morning and take her departure before he was down. At the door he turned slightly to get a glimpse of her table. No, she had not even looked up.
He closed the door and, walking across to the smoking-room, threw himself into a comfortable chair by the roaring fire, rang for coffee and proceeded to light his pipe and smoke the Rain-Girl out of his thoughts.
Presently the waiter entered with the coffee, as Beresford judged by the click of crockery. The man placed a table in front of the fire on Beres-
