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.
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