“I believe you’ve forgotten me,” he declared.
“Forgotten?—no!” she exclaimed. “I not ever forget that pig Barthampton jeté par terre.”
“I’m sorry that’s what you remember me by,” he answered, seriously.
“I remember many things,” she said. “But now you are so great, so important: one say you are like the Wazîr of Egypt. I astonish me that you speak here in the street. Lizette belong to the night, and to the American Bar.”
She spoke with bitterness, and Daniel was sorry for her. She looked ill; and the afternoon sun seemed to disintegrate the bloom of the powder upon her face.
“You’re not looking very well,” he commented. “Is there anything the matter?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “The matter is here,” she answered, tapping her heart.
“In love?” he asked.
“No, not love,” she replied, with sudden intensity. “Hate, hate!”
He shook his head. “That’s bad. Whom do you hate?”