She told them so. And they pinched their noses and pulled their moustaches, because they were laughing—they were pouffant de rire—and they did not want to show it.
"And ... she did nothing else but write poems? Nothing else at all?"
"No, nothing." And as the man with the beard seemed suddenly to be staring her through and through, she added nervously: "Except ... I have begun a book ... a novel. But it is not finished."
The fair man suddenly handed her a little piece of blue cardboard, and requested her to write her name on it. She said, "Why?" and the man made a gesture with his hand that meant, "It has nothing to do with me. Do not do so if you do not wish."
All the others smiled and bent their heads down, and pretended to write.
Nancy looked round her with the expression of a hunted rabbit. A man was coming in, sauntering along with his hand in his pocket. He was English, Nancy saw at a glance. He reminded her a little of Mr. Kingsley. Tom Avory's daughter went straight towards the new-comer, and said:
"You are English?"
"I am," said the Englishman.
"Will you please help me? My father was English," said Nancy, with a little break in her voice. "They ... they want me to write my name. Shall I do it?"
The Englishman smiled slightly under his straight-clipped, light moustache. "Do you want to go into the gaming-rooms?"