It is hard not to feel generous when you have given away fifty pounds, and Old Mole yielded. They had oysters and grilled kidneys, and they drank champagne. Matilda had never tasted it before and she made a little ceremony of it. It was so pretty (she said), such a lovely color, and the bubbles were so funnily busy. He drank too much of it and became amorous. Matilda was wonderfully pretty and amusing in her excitement, and he could not take his eyes off her.
“Tell me,” he said, “do you really like this life?”
“I love it. It’s something like what I’ve always wanted to be. In some ways it’s better and some ways it’s worse.”
“I don’t see much of you now.”
“You like me all the better when you do see me.”
“We’re not getting on much with your education.”
“Education be blowed.”
He was distressed and wished she had not said “be blowed.” She saw his discomfort and leaned forward and patted his hand.
“Don’t you fret, my dear. There’s a good time coming.”
But unaccountably he was depressed. He was feeling sorry he had brought her. There was a vulgarity, a sensuousness in the glitter and gilt of the restaurant that sorted ill with what in his heart he felt and was proud to feel for Matilda. He was sorry that she liked it, but saw, too, that she could not help but be pleased since to her it was all novel and dazzling. Hardest of all to bear, he was forced to admit that he had no immediate alternative to lay before her.