When they left the restaurant it was nearly empty.  They left easily, slowly, magnificently.  The largesse of Everard Lucas—­his hat slightly raked—­in the foyer and at the portico was magnificent in both quantity and manner.  There was no need to hurry; the hour, though late for the end of dinner, was early for separation.  They moved and talked without the slightest diffidence, familiar and confident; the whole world was reformed and improved for them by the stimulus of food and alcohol.  The night was sultry and dark.  The two women threw their cloaks back from their shoulders, revealing the whiteness of toilettes.  At the door the head-lights of Miss Wheeler’s automobile shot horizontally right across Regent Street.  The chauffeur recognized George, and George recognized the car; he was rather surprised that Miss Wheeler had not had a new car in eighteen months.  Lucas spoke of his own car, which lay beyond in the middle of the side-street like a ship at anchor.  He spoke in such a strain that Miss Wheeler deigned to ask him to drive her home in it.  The two young men went to light the head-lights.  George noticed the angry scowl on Everard’s face when three matches had been blown out in the capricious breeze.  The success of the fourth match restored his face to perfect benignity.  He made the engine roar triumphantly, imperiously sounded his horn, plunged forward, and drew the car up in front of Miss Wheeler’s.  His bliss, when Miss Wheeler had delicately inserted herself into the space by his side, was stern and yet radiant.  The big car, with George and Laurencine on board, followed the little one like a cat following a mouse, and Laurencine girlishly interested herself in the chase.  George, with his mind on Lois, kept saying to himself:  “She’s been thinking about that little affair ever since last November but one.  They’ve all been thinking about it.”  He felt apprehensive, but his satisfaction amounted to excitement.  His attitude was:  “At any rate I gave them something to think about!” Also he breathed appreciatively the atmosphere of the three women—­two seen and one unseen.  How extraordinarily different all of them were from Agg!  They reminded him acutely of his deep need of luxury.  After all, the life lived by those two men about town, George and Everard, was rather humdrum and monotonous.  In spite of Everard’s dash, and in spite of George’s secret engagement, neither of them met enough women or enough sorts of women.  George said to himself:  “I shall see her to-night.  We shall go up to the flat.  She isn’t in bed.  I shall see her to-night.”  He wanted to see her because he had hurt her, and because she had remembered and had talked about him and had raised curiosity about him in others.  Was she really unwell?  Or had she been excusing herself!  Was she an angel?  He wanted to see her again in order to judge for himself whether she was an angel.  If Laurencine said she was an angel she must be an angel.  Laurencine was a jolly, honest girl.  To be in the car with