He recollected his British passport and the affected accent he had been using lately, and he blushed again at the thought of having forgotten to keep up the pretence as he ought to have done. Then with a slight frown, and assuming a business-like dryness of tone in which a certain amount of weariness was perceptible, he took the girl by the elbow and led her along swiftly.
»No, I am a Russian, Russian. Now, where are we to go? Show me! This way?«
The large mirror showed the full-length figures of the pair sharply and clearly—she in black, pale, and at that distance very pretty; he also in black, and just as pale.
Under the glare of the electric lights hanging from the ceiling his wide forehead and the hard mass of his prominent cheeks were peculiarly pale; and both in his face and the girl's, where the eyes should have been, there were mysterious, fascinating hollows. And so strange was the picture of such a black stern couple against the white walls, reflected in the broad gilded mirror, that he was startled, and stopped short by the thought: »Like a bride and bridegroom.« And, as his imagination was dulled by want of sleep, and his thoughts brusque and inconsequent, the next moment, looking at the stern pair in mourning black, he thought: »As at a funeral.« And both notions were equally unpleasant.
Apparently his feelings were shared by the girl. She silently, wonderingly glanced at herself and him, him and herself; she tried to wink—but the mirror would not respond to so slight a movement, and in the same dull and obstinate manner persisted in picturing this black shamefast couple. And perhaps this pleased the girl, or recalled something of herself, something sad, for she smiled gently, and lightly pressed his clenched hand.
»What a couple!« she said reflectively, and for some reason or other the dark bow of her eye-lashes, with the fine curve of their droop, became more noticeable.
This he did not observe, but resolutely dragged the girl along with him, she tapping her way on high French heels on the parquet flooring.
There was a corridor, as there always is, and narrow dark little rooms with open doors. At one of them inscribed above in irregular handwriting, »Liuba«, they entered.
»And now, Liuba,« he said, looking round and unconsciously rubbing his hands one over the other, as though carefully washing them in cold water, »don't we want wine and something else? Or some fruit?«
»Fruit is expensive here.«