Wilfred was sharply arrested by desire. What a chance! After that Joe would have no mysteries for him! But of course, a power outside his control shook his head for him. He heard himself saying primly: “Sunday is my working day.”
Joe was not sufficiently interested to enquire what he meant. “That’s a good-looking wench over here at my left,” he said; “the one with the black hat tipped over her nose.”
Wilfred was willing to meet him on that ground. “Out o’ sight,” he agreed. “Wonderful looking girls come here.”
“They ought to be,” said Joe; “highest-priced in town . . . let’s get a couple. . .”
An icy hand was laid on Wilfred, chilling the absinthe-engendered warmth. In spite of himself, he could not quite command his face. Joe chuckled.
“It’s easy fixed,” he said. “All you got to do is slip a bill to the waiter. You don’t even have to do that, because François will get a rake-off from the girls later. He has a list of their telephone numbers, see? He calls them up, and in a few minutes a pair of them will breeze in and say: ‘So sorry we were late!’ ”
Wilfred miserably shook his head.
“You don’t need to be afraid of them,” said Joe. “Just because they look like Duchesses. They wouldn’t be let in here if they didn’t. They’re just girls like any others. They’ll make it easy for you, when they see you’re green.”
This was bitter for Wilfred. “I’m not afraid of them,” he said quickly.
Joe laughed again. “Aw, come on,” he said.