“I only knew one. I go very little with women.”
“All the same, love's nice, isn't it?”
They were sitting on the rail at the bow of the barge. Rosaline had sidled up so that her leg touched Andrews's leg along its whole length.
The memory of Genevieve Rod became more and more vivid in his mind. He kept thinking of things she had said, of the intonations of her voice, of the blundering way she poured tea, and of her pale-brown eyes wide open on the world, like the eyes of a woman in an encaustic painting from a tomb in the Fayoum.
“Mother's talking to the old woman at the Creamery. They're great friends. She won't be home for two hours yet,” said Rosaline.
“She's bringing my clothes, isn't she?”
“But you're all right as you are.”
“But they're your father's.”
“What does that matter?”
“I must go back to Paris soon. There is somebody I must see in Paris.”