Almost as he spoke a young officer walked past the café, under the awnings, with an expression on his face which suggested that he detected a very unpleasant smell in the world. He glanced into the saloon, and, seeing Lizette, looked quickly in the other direction.
“That is one of them,” she said. “He come to me every Sunday after Church.”
Daniel turned his eyes to her, and there was pity and horror in them. “Ah, my girl, no wonder you hate us,” he declared. “If I were you, I’d try not to speak to a man for, say, six months.”
“But how to live?” she asked. “I must get the money to live.”
She moved her head from side to side in despair; and Daniel, searching his brains for a solution of the problem, stared out into the sun-bathed street, his brows puckered, his fingers combing back his unruly hair.
“Gee!” he muttered. “You’re in a fix! Hav’n’t you got any relations in Marseilles?”
She nodded, but without animation. “There is my brother Georges-Antoine....”
“Does he know how you earn your living?” he asked.
“No,” she replied. “He think I make the hat.”
“How much money have you saved?” he enquired.