She laughed loudly at her own joke, and laid the curlingtongs aside. He watched her move about the room in search of spirit-lamp and coffee-mill. Beneath the drooping black chemise, her loose breasts swayed.
"Not that I've much time," she went on, as she ground the coffee. "It's gone a quarter to twelve already, and I like fresh air. I don't miss a minute of it.—So up you get! Here, dowse your head in this water."
Leaning against the table, Maurice drank the cup of black coffee, and considered his companion. No longer young, she was as coarsely haggard as are the generality of women of her class, scanned by cruel daylight. And while she could never have been numbered among the handsome ones of her profession, there was yet a certain kindliness in the smallish blue eyes, and in her jocose manner of treating him.
She, too, eyed him as he drank.
"SAG''MAL KLEINER—will you come again?" she broke the silence.
"What's your name?" he asked evasively, and put the cup down on the table.
"Oh ... just ask for Luise," she said. On her tongue, the name had three long-drawn syllables, and there was a v before the i.
She was nettled by his laugh.
"What's wrong with it?" she asked. "GEH', KLEINER, SEI NETT!—won't you come again?"
"Perhaps."