"
"Pommery!" she exclaimed. "I hope you'll be able to open it."
"That shall be my task," he promised. "You needn't worry about
flippers. I have some in my pocket. And by the by," he added, glancing
at the clock, "where is your other guest? It is ten minutes past eight,
and I can hear your chafing-dish sizzling."
She threw back the curtain and took his arm. The table was laid for
two. He looked at it in bewilderment and then back at her.
"He has disappointed you?"
She smiled up at him.
"He has disappointed me many, many times," she said, "but not to-night."
"I don't--understand," he faltered.
"I think you do," she answered.
He took the chair opposite to hers. The chafing-dish was between them.
He was filled with a curious sense of unreality. It was a little scene,
this, out of a story or a play. It didn't actually concern him. It
wasn't Nora who sat within a few feet of him, bending down over the
chafing-dish and stirring its contents vigorously.
"Of course," she said, "I am perfectly well aware that this is an
anti-climax. I am perfectly well aware, too, that you will have a most
uncomfortable dinner.
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