"Where's the best place to stay?" Sylvia inquired.
"Well, the best place to stay is in some hotel," Lottie replied. "But the hotels are so horribly expensive. Of course, there are plenty of pensions d'artistes, and—" she broke off and looked at Sylvia curiously, who asked her why she did so.
"I was thinking that it's a pity you can't share a room together," she said after a momentary hesitation.
"So we can," Sylvia answered, sharply.
"Well, in that case I should go to a small hotel," Lottie advised. "Because all the pensions here are run by old thieves. There's Mère Valérie—she's French and almost the worst of the lot—and there's one kept by a Greek who's not so bad, but they say most of her bedrooms have bugs."
"We'll go to a hotel," Sylvia decided. "Where are you going yourself?"
"Oh, I shall find myself a room somewhere. I don't stand a chance of being engaged at any first-rate cabaret and I sha'n't have much money to spend on rooms. Entre nous, je ne dis plus rien aux hommes. Je suis trop grasse. À quoi sert une jolie chambre?"
Sylvia had a feeling that she ought to ask Lottie to share a room with Queenie and herself, and after a struggle against the notion of this fat girl's ungainly presence she keyed herself to the pitch of inviting her.
"No, no," said Lottie. "It wouldn't do for two English girls to live with an Austrian."
Sylvia could not help being relieved at her refusal; perhaps she showed it, for Lottie smiled cynically.