They were dining at a restaurant in the Strand, which Aynesworth had selected as representing one, the more wealthy, type of Bohemian life.  The dinner and wine had been of his choosing.  Wingrave had stipulated only for the best.  Wingrave himself had eaten very little, the bottle of wine stood half empty between them.  The atmosphere of the place, the effect of the wine, the delicate food, and the music, were visible to a greater or less degree, according to temperament, amongst all the other little groups of men and women by whom they were surrounded.  Wingrave alone remained unaffected.  He was carefully and correctly dressed in clothes borrowed from his new tailor, and he showed not the slightest signs of strangeness or gaucherie amongst his unfamiliar surroundings.  He looked about him always, with the cold, easy nonchalance of the man of the world.  Of being recognized he had not the slightest fear.  His frame and bearing, and the brightness of his deep, strong eyes, still belonged to early middle age, but his face itself, worn and hardened, was the face of an elderly man.  The more Aynesworth watched him, the more puzzled he felt.

“I am afraid,” he remarked, “that you are disappointed in this place.”

“Not at all,” Wingrave answered.  “It is typical of a class, I suppose.  It is the sort of place I wished to visit.”

In a corner of the room Aynesworth had recognized a friend and fellow clubman, who was acting at a neighboring theater.  He was dining with some young ladies of his company, and beckoned to Aynesworth to come over and join them.  He pointed them out to Wingrave.

“Would you care to be introduced?” he asked.  “Holiwell is a very good fellow, and the girls might interest you.  Two of them are Americans, and they are very popular.”

Wingrave shook his head.

“Thank you, no!” he said.  “I should be glad to meet your friend some time when he is alone.”

It was the first intimation which Aynesworth had received of his companion’s sentiments as regards the other sex.  Years afterwards, when his attitude towards them was often quoted as being one of the extraordinary features of an extraordinary personality, he remembered his perseverance on this occasion.

“You have not spoken to a woman for so many years,” he persisted.  “Why not renew the experience?  Nothing so humanizing, you know—­not even cigarettes.”

Wingrave’s face fell, if possible into sterner lines.  His tone was cold and hard.

“My scheme of life,” he said, “may be reconstructed more than once before I am satisfied.  But I can assure you of this!  There will be no serious place in it for women!”

Aynesworth shrugged his shoulders.  He never doubted but that in a month of two his vis-a-vis would talk differently.

“Your scheme of life,” he repeated thoughtfully.  “That sounds interesting!  Have you any objection, I wonder, to telling me what manner of life you propose to lead?”