“You look pretty pasty,” said Michael severely.
“Worry, old man, worry,” said Barnes. “Well, to put it straight, I fell in with a girl who was down on her luck, and I knew you’d be the very one to encourage a bit of charity. So I brought her here.”
“Why are you sleeping in this room?” Michael asked.
“You’re getting a Mr. Smart, aren’t you?” said Barnes. “Fancy you’re noticing that. Oh, well, I suppose you’ve come to ask for your rooms back?”
Michael with the consciousness of the woman behind those curtained doors knew that he could discuss nothing at present. He felt that all the time her ear was at the keyhole, and he went out suddenly, telling Barnes to meet him at the Orange that night.
Again the beerhall impressed him with its eternal sameness. It was as if a cinema film had broken when he last went out of the Café d’Orange, and had been set in action again at the moment of his return. He looked round to see if Daisy was there, and she was. Her hat which had formerly been black and trimmed with white daisies was now, to mark the season, white and trimmed with black daisies.
“Hulloa, little stranger!” she exclaimed. “Where have you been?”
So exactly the same was the Orange that Michael was almost surprised that she should have observed a passage of time.
“You never seem to come here now,” she said reproachfully. “Come on. Sit down. Don’t stand about like a man selling matches on the curb.”
“How’s Bert?” Michael asked.