“'Absolutely.' And he went away.
“'What do you think you'll get by staying?' says my consul.
“'I have nothing to eat or drink, and nowhere to sleep,' says I.
“'What will you go for?'
“'Ten marks.'
“'Here, then, get out!' I can tell you, monsieur, one must n't have a thin skin if one wants to exploit consuls.”
His yellow fingers slowly rolled the stump of his cigarette, his ironical lips flickered. Shelton thought of his own ignorance of life. He could not recollect ever having gone without a meal.
“I suppose,” he said feebly, “you've often starved.” For, having always been so well fed, the idea of starvation was attractive.
Ferrand smiled.
“Four days is the longest,” said he. “You won't believe that story.... It was in Paris, and I had lost my money on the race-course. There was some due from home which didn't come. Four days and nights I lived on water. My clothes were excellent, and I had jewellery; but I never even thought of pawning them. I suffered most from the notion that people might guess my state. You don't recognise me now?”