Supper-time in a small room at "The Gascony" on Derby Day.
Through the windows of a broad corridor, out of which the door opens, is seen the dark blue of a summer night. The walls are of apricot-gold; the carpets, curtains, lamp-shades, and gilded chairs, of red; the wood-work and screens white; the palms in gilded tubs. A doorway that has no door leads to another small room. One little table behind a screen, and one little table in the open, are set for two persons each. On a service-table, above which hangs a speaking-tube, are some dishes of hors d'ouvres, a basket of peaches, two bottles of champagne in ice-pails, and a small barrel of oysters in a gilded tub. ARNAUD, the waiter, slim, dark, quick, his face seamed with a quiet, soft irony, is opening oysters and listening to the robust joy of a distant supper-party, where a man is playing the last bars of: "Do ye ken John Peel" on a horn. As the sound dies away, he murmurs: "Tres Joli!" and opens another oyster. Two Ladies with bare shoulders and large hats pass down the corridor. Their talk is faintly wafted in: "Well, I never like Derby night! The boys do get so bobbish!" "That horn--vulgar, I call it!"
ARNAUD'S eyebrows rise, the corners of his mouth droop. A Lady with bare shoulders, and crimson roses in her hair, comes along the corridor, and stops for a second at the window, for a man to join her. They come through into the room. ARNAUD has sprung to attention, but with: "Let's go in here, shall we?" they pass through into the further room. The MANAGER, a gentleman with neat moustaches, and buttoned into a frock-coat, has appeared, brisk, noiseless, his eyes everywhere; he inspects the peaches.
MANAGER. Four shillin' apiece to-night, see?
ARNAUD. Yes, Sare.
From the inner room a young man and his partner have come in.
She is dark, almost Spanish-looking; he fair, languid, pale, clean-shaved, slackly smiling, with half-closed eyes-one of those who are bred and dissipated to the point of having lost all save the capacity for hiding their emotions. He speaks in a----
LANGUID VOICE. Awful row they're kickin' up in there, Mr. Varley.
A fellow with a horn.
MANAGER. [Blandly] Gaddesdon Hunt, my lord--always have their supper with us, Derby night. Quiet corner here, my lord. Arnaud!
ARNAUD is already at the table, between screen and palm. And, there ensconced, the couple take their seats. Seeing them safely landed, the MANAGER, brisk and noiseless, moves away. In the corridor a lady in black, with a cloak falling open, seems uncertain whether to come in. She advances into the doorway.
It is CLARE.
ARNAUD. [Pointing to the other table as he flies with dishes] Nice table, Madame.
CLARE moves to the corner of it. An artist in observation of his clients, ARNAUD takes in her face--very pale under her wavy, simply-dressed hair; shadowy beneath the eyes; not powdered; her lips not reddened; without a single ornament; takes in her black dress, finely cut, her arms and neck beautifully white, and at her breast three gardenias. And as he nears her, she lifts her eyes. It is very much the look of something lost, appealing for guidance.
ARNAUD. Madame is waiting for some one? [She shakes her head] Then Madame will be veree well here--veree well. I take Madame's cloak?
He takes the cloak gently and lays it on the back of the chair fronting the room, that she may put it round her when she wishes. She sits down.
LANGUID VOICE. [From the corner] Waiter!
ARNAUD. Milord!
LANGUID VOICE. The Roederer.
ARNAUD. At once, Milord.
CLARE sits tracing a pattern with her finger on the cloth, her eyes lowered. Once she raises them, and follows ARNAUD's dark rapid figure.
ARNAUD. [Returning] Madame feels the 'eat? [He scans her with increased curiosity] You wish something, Madame?
CLARE. [Again giving him that look] Must I order?
ARNAUD. Non, Madame, it is not necessary. A glass of water. [He pours it out] I have not the pleasure of knowing Madame's face.
CLARE. [Faintly smiling] No.
ARNAUD. Madame will find it veree good 'ere, veree quiet.
LANGUID VOICE. Waiter!
ARNAUD. Pardon! [He goes]
The bare-necked ladies with large hats again pass down the corridor outside, and again their voices are wafted in: "Tottie!
Not she! Oh! my goodness, she has got a pride on her!"
"Bobbie'll never stick it!" "Look here, dear----" Galvanized by those sounds, CLARE has caught her cloak and half-risen; they die away and she subsides.
ARNAUD. [Back at her table, with a quaint shrug towards the corridor] It is not rowdy here, Madame, as a rule--not as in some places. To-night a little noise. Madame is fond of flowers? [He whisks out, and returns almost at once with a bowl of carnations from some table in the next room] These smell good!
CLARE. You are very kind.
ARNAUD. [With courtesy] Not at all, Madame; a pleasure. [He bows]
A young man, tall, thin, hard, straight, with close-cropped, sandyish hair and moustache, a face tanned very red, and one of those small, long, lean heads that only grow in Britain; clad in a thin dark overcoat thrown open, an opera hat pushed back, a white waistcoat round his lean middle, he comes in from the corridor. He looks round, glances at CLARE, passes her table towards the further room, stops in the doorway, and looks back at her. Her eyes have just been lifted, and are at once cast down again. The young man wavers, catches ARNAUD's eye, jerks his head to summon him, and passes into the further room.
ARNAUD takes up the vase that has been superseded, and follows him out. And CLARE sits alone in silence, broken by the murmurs of the languid lord and his partner, behind the screen. She is breathing as if she had been running hard. She lifts her eyes.
The tall young man, divested of hat and coat, is standing by her table, holding out his hand with a sort of bashful hardiness.
YOUNG MAN. How d'you do? Didn't recognize you at first. So sorry-awfully rude of me.
CLARE'S eyes seem to fly from him, to appeal to him, to resign herself all at once. Something in the YOUNG MAN responds. He drops his hand.
