The few sentences he had spoken during the last four years at Petershof
were on record; this was decidedly the longest of them all.

"He is going to speak again," whispered beautiful Mrs. Reffold to her
neighbour.

The Disagreeable Man once more looked up from his newspaper.

"Please, pass me the Yorkshire relish," he said in his rough way to a
sitting next to him.

The spell was broken, and the conversation started afresh. But the girl
who had passed the Yorkshire relish sat silent and listless, her food
untouched, and her wine untasted. She was small and thin; her face
looked haggard. She was a new-comer, and had, indeed, arrived at
Petershof only two hours before the _table-d'hôte_ bell rang. But there
did not seem to be any nervous shrinking in her manner, nor any shyness
at having to face the two hundred and fifty guests of the Kurhaus. She
seemed rather to be unaware of their presence; or, if aware of,
certainly indifferent to the scrutiny under which she was being placed.
She was recalled to reality by the voice of the Disagreeable Man. She
did not hear what he said, but she mechanically stretched out her hand
and passed him the mustard-pot.

"Is that what you asked for?" she said half dreamily; "or was it the
water-bottle?"

"You are rather deaf, I should think," said the Disagreeable Man
placidly. "I only remarked that it was a pity you were not eating your
dinner. Perhaps the scrutiny of the two hundred and fifty guests in