“Not a bit.”
“Then kiss me.”
Some moments later she said softly: “I like you very much. I would not mind very much a room for fifty francs a day. But the Hotel des Belges is terrible. I do not want to go back there. You are not angry with me?”
“No, I am not angry with you.” Her body was soft and warm and infinitely yielding. She had made him feel as if Banat and the rest of the journey really did not matter. He felt both grateful to and sorry for her. He made up his mind that, when he got to Paris, he would buy her a handbag and slip a thousand franc note in it before he gave it to her. He said: “It’s all right. You needn’t go back to the Hotel des Belges.”
When at last they went down to the saloon it was after ten. José and Mr. Kuvetli were there playing cards.
José was playing with thin-lipped concentration and took no notice of them; but Mr. Kuvetli looked up. His smile was sickly.
“Madame,” he said ruefully, “your husband plays cards very well.”
“He has had a lot of practice.”
“Ah, yes, I am sure.” He played a card. José slapped another one on top of it triumphantly. Mr. Kuvetli’s face fell.
“It is my game,” said José and gathered up some money from the table. “You have lost eighty-four lire. If we had been playing for lire instead of centesimi I should have won eight thousand four hundred lire. That would be interesting. Shall we play another game?”