"But mademoiselle eats nothing—a bird's appetite." And here was displayed the first hint of vulgarity we are taught to look for in the other class.
She put her hands about my arms. "Tiens! un
bras tout de meme!" and she looked at Maurice, the young man on my right.
"Maurice c'est toi qui devrait t'informer des bras d'mademoiselle."
("Maurice, it is you who should inform yourself of mademoiselle's arms.")
Maurice laughed with appreciation, as did the others. He was the sole American at table; out of courtesy for him we talked English from time to time, although he assured us he understood all we said in "the jargon."
To Maurice a master pen could do justice; none other. His type is seen stealing around corners in London's Whitechapel and in the lowest quarters of New York: a lounger, indolent, usually drunk. Maurice was the type, with the qualities absent. Tall, lank, loosely hung together, made for muscular effort, he wore a dark flannel shirt, thick with grease and oil stains, redolent with tobacco, a checked waistcoat, no collar or cravat. From the collarless circle of his shirt rose his strong young neck and bullet head; his forehead was heavy and square below the heavy brows; his black eyes shone deep sunken in their caverns.
His black hair, stiff as a brush, came low on his forehead; his mouth was large and sensual, his teeth brilliant. But his hands! never to be forgotten! Scrubbed till flesh might well have parted from the
bones! clean, even if black and mutilated with toil; fingers forever darkened; stained ingrained ridges rising around the nails, hard and ink-black as leather. Maurice was Labour—its Symbol—its Epitome.