An anaemic waiter in a shirt some four days old, with grease-spots on his garments and a crumpled napkin on his arm, stood leaning an elbow amongst doubtful fruits, and reading an Italian journal.

Resting his tired feet in turn, he looked like overwork personified, and when he moved, each limb accused the sordid smartness of the walls.

In the far corner sat a lady eating, and, mirrored opposite, her feathered hat, her short, round face, its coat of powder, and dark eyes, gave Shelton a shiver of disgust.

His companion's gaze rested long and subtly on her.
"Excuse me, monsieur," he said at length.

"I think I know that lady!" And, leaving his host, he crossed the room, bowed, accosted her, and sat down.