Zoe did not care for olives, but Pinto had overlooked this fact. He happened to have a taste for them himself....
A black figure shot past him and downstairs as though discharged from a catapult. It was Benvenuto the oboe-player.
On the next landing, the children of the Second Tailor came out and drove a hoop at Pinto’s legs, under the impression that he was a kind gentleman. He disabused them of the notion, and scowling heavily and panting more than ever, toiled on. It was deepest ingratitude on the part of Zoe to live on the fourth floor.
The children of the Third Tailor merely blocked his way, snuffling heavily. Their sombre eyes and unspoken speech was that of Maeterlinckian drama: “We have seen him before....” “We have seen him a great many times....” “He is seeking the princess in the tower-room....” “What is that he holds in his hand—I cannot tell—it is so dark....” “Hush—draw closer....”
Pinto had now reached the topmost flat, and handing Zoe the olives, coldly awaited her answering burst of enthusiasm. Unfortunately he had so often reprimanded her for displays of undue effervescence, that Zoe limited her gratitude to a meek “Thank you very much, Pinto.”
Pinto was aggrieved. He shrugged his shoulders—demanded his dinner; reproved Zoe for having her sleeves tucked up—(“You look like an ill-bred cook!”)—commented unfavourably on the sort of household which lacked a corkscrew—(“When I take trouble to bring you a jar of olives!”)—and finally broke the news that he was going to Paris on business for a month.
Zoe, smarting under the charge of a lack of feeling, flung herself into Pinto’s arms, wailing aloud her grief; he was horribly jarred by her piteous want of control, but shutting his eyes, suffered it uncomplainingly for a moment; then condescendingly pulled her ear, and remarked that he expected her behaviour during his absence to be circumspect, discreet and loyal.
Zoe promised.