“Haven’t you cream?” she curtly challenged the waitress, arriving with ice, lemon-squash, and George’s tea.

The alien mercenary met her glance inimically for a second, and then, shutting her lips together, walked off with the milk.  At Prosser’s the waitresses did not wear caps, and were, in theory, ladies.  Lois would have none of the theory; the waitress was ready to die for it and carried it away with her intact.  George preferred milk to cream, but he said nothing.

“Yes,” Lois went on.  “You ought to come to Paris.  You have been, haven’t you?  I remember you told me.  We’re supposed to go back next week, but if Irene doesn’t go, I shan’t.”  She frowned.

George said that positively he would come to Paris.

When they had fairly begun the rich, barbaric meal, Lois asked abruptly: 

“Why did you write in the middle of the night?”

Sometimes her voice was veiled.

“Why did I write in the middle of the night?  Because I thought I would.”  He spoke masterfully.  He didn’t mean to stand any of her cheek.

“Oh!” she laughed nicely. “I didn’t mind.  I liked it—­awfully.  It was just the sort of thing I should have done myself.  But you might tell me all about it.  I think I deserve that much, don’t you?”

Thus he told her all about it—­how he had arranged everything, got a room, meant to have his name painted on the door, meant to make his parents take their holiday on the north-east coast for a change, so that he could study the site, meant to work like a hundred devils, etc.  He saw with satisfaction that the arrogant, wilful creature was impressed.

She said: 

“Now listen to me.  You’ll win that competition.”

“I shan’t,” he said.  “But it’s worth trying, for the experience—­that’s what Enwright says.”

She said: 

“I don’t care a fig what Enwright says.  You’ll win that competition.  I’m always right when I sort of feel—­you know.”

For the moment he believed in the miraculous, inexplicable intuitions of women.

“Oh!” she cried, as the invisible orchestra started a new tune.  “Do you know that?  It’s the first time I’ve heard it in London.  It’s the machiche.  It’s all over Paris.  I think it’s the most wonderful tune in the world.”  Her body swayed; her foot tapped.

George listened.  Yes, it was a maddening tune.

“It is,” he agreed eagerly.

She cried: 

“Oh!  I do love pleasure!  And success!  And money!  Don’t you?”

Her eyes had softened; they were liquid with yearning; but there was something frankly sensual in them.  This quality, swiftly revealed, attracted George intensely for an instant.

Immediately afterwards she asked the time, and said she must go.

“I daren’t keep Irene waiting,” she said.  Her eyes now had a hard glitter.