The dinner was a social success.  Irene Wheeler listened adroitly, if without brilliance, and after one glass of wine George found himself quite able to talk in the Enwright manner about architecture and the profession of architecture, and also to talk about automobiles.  The casualness with which he mentioned his Final Examination was superb—­the examiners might have been respectfully waiting for him to arrive and discomfit them.  But of course the main subject was automobiles.  Even Laurencine knew the names of all the leading makers, and when the names of all the leading makers had been enumerated and their products discussed, the party seemed to think that it had accomplished something that was both necessary and stylish.  When the tablecloth had been renewed, and the solemn moment came for Everard Lucas to order liqueurs, George felt almost gay.  He glanced round the gilded and mirrored apartment, now alluringly animated by the subdued yet vivacious intimacies of a score of white tables, and decided that the institution of restaurants was a laudable and agreeable institution.  Marguerite had receded further than ever into the background of his mind; and as for the Final, it had diminished to a formality.

“And you?” Everard asked Laurencine, after Miss Wheeler.

George had thought that Laurencine was too young for liqueurs.  She had had no wine.  He expected her to say ‘Nothing, thanks,’ as conventionally as if her late head mistress had been present.  But she hesitated, smiling, and then, obedient to the profound and universal instinct which seems to guide all young women to the same liqueur, she said: 

“May I have a creme de menthe?  I’ve never had creme de menthe.”

George was certainly shocked for an instant.  But no one else appeared to be shocked.  Miss Wheeler, in charge of Laurencine, offered no protest.  And then George reflected:  “And why not?  Why shouldn’t she have a creme de menthe?” When Laurencine raised the tiny glass to her firm, large mouth, George thought that the sight of the young virginal thing tasting a liqueur was a fine and a beautiful sight.

“It’s just heavenly!” murmured Laurencine ecstatically.

Miss Wheeler was gazing at George.

“What’s the matter?” he demanded, smiling, and rested one elbow on the table and looked enigmatically through the smoke of his cigar.

“I was just wondering about you,” said Miss Wheeler.  Her voice, always faint, had dropped to a murmur which seemed to expire as it reached George’s ear.

“Why?” He was flattered.

“I’ve been wanting to see you.”

“Really!” he laughed, rather too loudly.  “What a pity I didn’t know earlier!” He was disturbed as well as flattered, for such a remark from such a person as Irene Wheeler to such a person as himself was bound to be disturbing.  His eyes sought audaciously to commune with hers, but hers were not responsive; they were entirely non-committal.