He changed note after note into five-franc pieces, lost them all, and at last began to win a little; won, lost, won.
Mendel dragged him away from the table, protesting:—
“Come along. I have had enough. Do come along. We haven’t had a chance to talk for days, and I hate these rooms with all the flashy, noisy people. . . . We can come back here and find the others. Let us go and find some fun that we can share, for this is deadly dull for me. Besides, we don’t want to be stranded without money.”
“But I’m winning. My luck is in.”
He rushed back to the tables and lost—twice, upon which he allowed himself to be persuaded, and they went out into the air and sat on a terrace by the lake. Mendel produced cigarettes and they smoked in silence for some time. Logan looked pale and worn and was obviously smouldering with excitement.
“How amazingly different everything looks here,” he said. “In London I always feel as though I had a thumb pressing into my brain. Everybody seems indifferent and hostile and everything I do is incongruous. I feel almost happy here. I should like to stay here. I told her so and she began to cry. I knocked her down. I couldn’t stand her crying any more. I knocked her down and she fainted.”
“She was shamming,” thought Mendel, seeing vividly the scene in the bedroom. “He did not hurt her. She was shamming.”
“I feel a brute,” said Logan, “and yet I’m glad. I’m tremendously glad. I want to sing. I want to get drunk. I’m tremendously glad. It has settled something. I’m her master. She was getting on my nerves. She won’t do that any more. Ha! Ha!”
“Why don’t you get rid of her?” asked Mendel. “Leave her here. Come back with me to-morrow.”
“Don’t be a silly child,” said Logan patronizingly. “I love her. I couldn’t live without her now, not for a single day. I could no more do without her than I could do without the clothes on my back. I tell you she’s an inspiration. If she left me I should lay down my brush for ever. She’s a religion—all the religion I’ve got.”