But Irene joined him, and while yet far off said anxiously:—
"You seem depressed; aren't you happy?"
This question was so tactless, so artless, that Lewis could only make a gesture of despair, without daring to lift his eyes.
"Profoundly happy," he answered.
"I am asking you for the truth."
"Well then ... if you love me let's go back to Paris ... just for a week. I feel I shall go mad if I don't see a cloud soon, if you can understand that."
[V]
THEY went back. It was midsummer. Paris was just like Greece: the Madeleine full of Americans, the Champs Elysées deserted, burnt up and inhabited by goats. There was a water famine. The Grand Prix had been won by a Greek.
Lewis and Irene lived an Oriental life behind closed shutters. But they were no longer on an island, and some of the warm, ribald charm of the months gone by lingered in the empty streets, and when the tourists' chars-à-bancs had disappeared there remained in the air something eager, dexterous and precious, which Paris will always retain, even when there are no more Frenchmen to live there.
They saw no one. Irene disliked people. She never spoke to them. "In Paris," she said, "people always seem to be expecting you to surprise them. I have nothing to give them. I only expect you, Lewis. So long as I am alone with you I am happy. I like the lower classes, children and animals: but here children always look ill, animals are ill-treated, and the work-people are nothing but greedy snobs."