She leaned towards him.
"Please do not be long," she whispered.

"You must admit that I have been an admirable dinner companion.

I have talked to you all the time on your own subject.

You must come and talk to me presently about art." Julian, with his hand on the back of his chair, watched the women pass out of the soft halo of the electric lights into the gloomier shadows of the high, vaulted room, Catherine a little slimmer than most of the others, and with a strange grace of slow movement which must have come to her from some Russian ancestor.

Her last words lingered in his mind.
He was to talk to her about art! A fleeting vision of the youth in the yellow oilskins mocked him.