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The meeting with Monty was for seven o'clock, and the little restaurant where they were to dine was already half-full of people when Patricia arrived. She went straight in, and saw Monty waiting in the hall of the restaurant, his overcoat already discarded, and a cigarette between his lips. For the first time that day Patricia's heart really lightened. Monty was in evening dress (for so it had been arranged), and he always looked his most handsome when dressed. The white shirt enhanced the olive darkness of his skin, and the beautifully cut coat made him look slimmer than he was. And there was a quality in Monty's caressing manner which pleased and soothed Patricia. It was full of admiration. Monty had very dark and tired eyes, which seemed never to yield their secrets. There was power in his carriage. Everything about Monty, from his bearing to his finger tips, suggested luxury and invulnerability. He seemed always just to have left the hands of his hairdresser and the manicurist.

And on this evening he was more than ever regal and courteous. His quick glance was full of sympathy and reassurance, as though he were saying: "You are unhappy, but you look, as usual, incomparably lovely. You deserve, and you shall have, all the consolation, all the happiness that I can give you; and it will make me very proud if you will let me entertain you with all the resources of expensiveness and unobtrusive delicacy." Spoken, the words would have been odious; conveyed, they were as balm.

"Come straight in," murmured Monty, his hand upon her wrist. Patricia could still feel that he bore about him the aroma of the Egyptian cigarette which he had thrown away, and it seemed appropriate to him. He had for her the attractiveness of something exotic. The proximity of that dark face and dark head was agreeable; where all was softness and gentle modulation, she, too, could not fail to yield. "How punctual you always are! I've got a table there—in the far corner. It will be quieter. And I ventured—you will excuse me?—to order the dinner."

With a checked sigh, Patricia allowed Monty to help her with her coat, so that her arms might be free; and as he seated himself opposite she smiled. She did not know that it was a pathetic smile: she would have blushed had she known it. But Monty's glance seemed to be everywhere, although it was so seldom anything but gentle and melancholy. He spoke to the waiter, who disappeared and returned too quickly to allow of any talk in the interval. The waiter bore two small glasses.

"This is a very exceptional cocktail," said Monty. "It will do you good."

Patricia held out her hand for the glass he extended. For the first time in her life she was eager for stimulant. She drank the cool bitter drink, which sent a slow motion of revived life through her, and filled her eyes and made the feeling of dispirited tiredness recede. Monty was watching her.

"Very good," Patricia assured him. She saw the black head inclined, the slow smile which crossed Monty's face; and upon the table his plump and beautifully shapely hand as he received his own glass. As he did this, a waiter brought a shining bucket, containing ice, held a bottle for verification, and drew with a muffled pop the wine-cork. Patricia started: Monty was giving her champagne. How glad she was! It was as if he had known that she was miserable, and had planned to disperse the shadow. It was magic.

"You like the wine dry?" said Monty. "This is Ruinart."

Patricia nodded, shyly smiling. How kind he was! How kind and consoling and suave and perfectly controlled. As if he had known! Her heart warmed. Already the wretchedness of the day was slipping out of her memory. Her spirits were rising with each instant. She was growing happy.