"No—I draw the line at that!—What do you say to a bird, to follow?"
"Comme tu veux!—For me it's enough—with a little fruit and good coffee ... and a 'petit verre.' Say, now, Pierrot, shall we come one day and sit there?" She pointed gaily through the screen to the crowded noisy room beyond.
"I should love that! To sip absinthe—dressed like a little milliner! Look at that woman on the right with the shabby ulster and elegant boots. You rarely see that over here—It's a feathered hat in the latest fashion and no thought for the 'dessous.' And the hair all scrabbled up and dull—the gloves old or far too tight—everything squandered on the dress, with colors to make one's ... 'digestion' turn!"
"Even the women in higher classes don't seem 'soignées'—only smart. And you call yourself a clean race! ... Because you walk through a cold bath."
For that sudden mirage of the Past had aroused in her the mal du pays. She flogged the Present with a rod, pickled in salt experience.
McTaggart felt a trifle ruffled. He was English enough to hold the theory that nothing outside the little island—with a patronizing lesser degree of excellence for its colonies—could nearly approach the standard set by British prosperity—plus its morals.
"Oh, come, now"—he paused a moment as the waiter ladled out their soup. "I defy you to find anywhere a finer type than our English girls. Look at their skin—their teeth—their hair—the healthy, well-bred look of them. Oh, no—I grant, there's charm, and style and an inborn sense of dress in foreign women and they're generally witty and can talk fourteen to the dozen! But give me an English girl"—his thoughts flashed back to Cydonia—-"unless," he added somewhat quickly—"unless, of course, I can have Fantine."
"Ah! merci——" she clapped her hands—"I'm the exception to prove the rule? But, seriously, I think you're biassed, though part of what you say is true. They've everything to make them perfect, these rose-leaf tinted, long-limbed girls—everything! That's what annoys me—save the wit to profit by Nature's gifts. It's such a prodigal waste of beauty ... Look at that girl at the end table——" she lowered her voice as she spoke—"with the colouring of Titian's 'Flora.' And she wears—bon Dieu!—an orange blouse. Because she's taking Tango lessons! And with it a cheap amethyst necklace. Someone has told her—without doubt!—they're Queen Alexandra's favorite stones. Her hat? Yes—it cost two guineas. So she compromised with shoes from a Sale and last year's skirt, taken in rather badly round the ankles. What a hotch-potch!—bound about that divine figure—ruined by cheap corsets—and yes! I was sure of it—a hole in a pair of openwork thread stockings!"
"I give in!——" McTaggart laughed—"or I know you won't enjoy your dinner. You see I'm half-Italian, too, so it's not real disloyalty."
She looked up, interested.