“Did the bell ring?”
“I think so.”
The inner door opened and a girl in a pink apron peered out at them. “Bon soir mademoiselle.”
“Ah ... bon soir monsieur ’dame.” She ushered them into a foodsmelling gaslit hall hung with overcoats and hats and mufflers. Through a curtained door the restaurant blew in their faces a hot breath of bread and cocktails and frying butter and perfumes and lipsticks and clatter and jingling talk.
“I can smell absinthe,” said Ellen. “Let’s get terribly tight.”
“Good Lord, there’s Congo.... Dont you remember Congo Jake at the Seaside Inn?”
He stood bulky at the end of the corridor beckoning to them. His face was very tanned and he had a glossy black mustache. “Hello Meester ’Erf.... Ow are you?”
“Fine as silk. Congo I want you to meet my wife.”
“If you dont mind the keetchen we will ’ave a drink.”
“Of course we dont.... It’s the best place in the house. Why you’re limping.... What did you do to your leg?”