She made a protest, holding his arm, but he called “Ober!” and paid for the wine, and rose from his chair. She held out her hand, and he gave her his.
“I expect you’re too good to live,” she said, with a queer little laugh.
“I ought to have died before,” he said, “but I missed the luck. In the war.”
“Learn to laugh,” she said. “Laugh at the cruelty of life, like I do.”
“I expect you know its cruelty,” he said, with a little pity in his voice.
“Down to the bottom of hell,” she answered, and laughed again.
“Well, good-night.”
“Gute Nacht, hübschen!”
She bent down suddenly and kissed his hand.
He went out of the dancing hall strangely perturbed. As the girl had bent her head to kiss his hand, the glint of her hair was a terrible reminder of Joyce. Yet this girl who was “bad” had been kinder to him than Joyce! That was a frightful thought. And Joyce was bad too, in a different way. She’d transferred herself to Kenneth with less temptation than this German girl who sold her love to escape unternährung, which was starvation.