And then the waiter placed a silver bucket of ice on the table; in the middle of the ice wobbled a bottle of Moet and Chandon. Zuleika showed her teeth in a broad smile, and turned swiftly round to examine the faces of those who, in the meantime, had sat down at neighbouring tables. Her eyes gave a rapid signal to a silly-looking creature immediately behind her; he had a face of lard, a drooping moustache, and googly eyes.
“Ah, Maestro!” she exclaimed, clasping his hands with gipsy ardour.
She turned round to us just as Twelves was taking a 25-drachma note from his pocket-book. Her face immediately assumed a cunning expression, and she stretched out a plump arm, gripped the bottle by the neck, and poured out the wine.
“Another five drachmas,” she said softly, “that is the price in this room.” Then, without a second’s pause, and holding her glass within an inch of her ear in order to listen to the icy hiss: “I have been in Salonika three weeks,” she announced, “and I think it is very nice. And you?”
“We both leave to-morrow,” he said.
We clicked glasses and drank. The room was rapidly filling, and an orchestra of scarlet-coated musicians played the latest Austrian waltz. We talked about nothing, yet we were not bored by Zuleika’s brainlessness, for Twelves was aflame with desire, and to me she was a new type of huntress. Full-bosomed ladies, absurdly conscious of the number and whiteness of their teeth, have always seemed to me much too grotesque to love.
It was not long before I began to perceive that Zuleika had no intention of succumbing either to Twelves’ masterfulness or his money. She knew I knew this, and was particularly charming to me in consequence. She desired neither him nor me: her mind was in Twelves’ pocket-book, counting his money: but she sought to make me her accomplice by securing my silence. Her design was the design of all hunters—to fasten her teeth on her prey and not lose hold while there was blood left to suck.
A watery-eyed waiter hovered near, like a bat. She plucked his sleeve.
“Another bottle!” she commanded imperiously, and, magically, it was on the table in twenty seconds, but this time the neck of the bottle emerged from a silver bucket filled with white roses. Evidently we were now customers worthy of special attention.
“C’est a vous,” she said, nodding and smiling in my direction, and evidently it was, for the bat, with folded wings, stood by my side.