She shrugged her shoulders. “All Paris cares. I’m not anxious to be dead; when I am, I’d like to look pretty.”
When we had seated ourselves, she took out her mirror and commenced tidying her hair and brushing the dust from her brows. There was nothing to be had, the waiter informed us, but pot au feu; déjeuner was over. So I ordered pot au feu, red wine and an omelet.
As she replaced her mirror in her muff, she looked up brilliantly. “You know, I am pretty.”
She was being watched. The dull eyes of the absinthe-drinkers had become alert. Tradesmen had come out of their shops and stared at her across the square. Some of the bolder strolled into the café and seated themselves close to her. They were paying the unabashed homage that a Frenchman always pays to feminine beauty.
I lowered my voice to a whisper; my throat was parched with dust. “This can’t go on.”
She laughed with her eyes. “It can go on as long as there’s any petrol left, and as long as you don’t try to kiss me when I’m speeding.”
“That’s not what I meant; you know it.”
“What then? The same old thing—marriage?”
I ignored her flippancy. “You’ll be turning back directly, and when you get to Paris, you won’t be like you are now. You’ll be La Fiesole and to-night you’ll be dancing with them all watching. I can’t bear it.”
“I shan’t.”