The restaurant was fairly full⁠—a good many foreigners and folk whom, from their appearance, he took to be literary or artistic. Scraps of conversation came his way through the clatter of plates and glasses. He distinctly heard the Boers sympathised with, the British Government blamed. “Don’t think much of their clientele,” he thought. He went stolidly through his dinner and special coffee without making his presence known, and when at last he had finished, was careful not to be seen going towards the sanctum of Madame Lamotte. They were, as he entered, having supper⁠—such a much nicer-looking supper than the dinner he had eaten that he felt a kind of grief⁠—and they greeted him with a surprise so seemingly genuine that he thought with sudden suspicion: “I believe they knew I was here all the time.” He gave Annette a look furtive and searching. So pretty, seemingly so candid; could she be angling for him? He turned to Madame Lamotte and said:

“I’ve been dining here.”