He looks round, glances at CLARE, passes her table
towards the further room, stops in the doorway, and looks back
at her. Her eyes have just been lifted, and are at once cast
down again. The young man wavers, catches ARNAUD's eye, jerks
his head to summon him, and passes into the further room.
ARNAUD takes up the vase that has been superseded, and follows
him out. And CLARE sits alone in silence, broken by the murmurs
of the languid lord and his partner, behind the screen. She is
breathing as if she had been running hard. She lifts her eyes.
The tall young man, divested of hat and coat, is standing by her
table, holding out his hand with a sort of bashful hardiness.
YOUNG MAN. How d'you do? Didn't recognize you at first. So sorry
--awfully rude of me.
CLARE'S eyes seem to fly from him, to appeal to him, to resign
herself all at once. Something in the YOUNG MAN responds. He
drops his hand.
CLARE. [Faintly] How d'you do?
YOUNG MAN. [Stammering] You--you been down there to-day?
CLARE. Where?
YOUNG MAN. [With a smile] The Derby. What? Don't you generally go
down? [He touches the other chair] May I?
CLARE. [Almost in a whisper] Yes.
As he sits down, ARNAUD returns and stands before them.
ARNAUD. The plovers' eggs veree good to-night, Sare. Veree good,
Madame. A peach or two, after. Veree good peaches. The Roederer,
Sare--not bad at all.
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