When the waiter brought it in its silver bucket of ice, the bottle looked very comforting. As they sipped, she grew more cheerful.
“Thank goodness I’m going. I say, why don’t you come, too? Do the giddy round,—Paris for the Grand Prix, Deauville, Biarritz,—one meets the same crowd at all these places, the world that lives to enjoy itself. Let’s enjoy ourselves.”
“I don’t belong to that world. I’m a quiet chap. I want a quiet life.”
“And I—I want a gay one. But I’m lonely. God! at times I’m so lonely, I could shoot myself or get drunk. I say, let’s get drunk to-night.”
“You’re joking.”
“Yes, I suppose I am. But that’s just how I feel. I don’t know why. Perhaps its because I won’t see you again. Oh, I say,—be a priceless darling. Do come.”
He shrugged his shoulders. He felt her power, the melting appeal of her eyes, the caress of her hand. Passion was invading him. He wanted to seize her, crush her, hurt her. “Why not,” he thought, “a month of that gay life! It would cost a good deal, but perhaps it would be worth it. A delirious month....” Then he heard himself saying:
“No, it’s no use. I can’t go.”
She stamped her foot pettishly. The spell was broken. After a little she resumed:
“Well, if you won’t come with me, you won’t refuse to help me. I’m in debt all round. I owe quite a lot of money to the pension, too. I don’t know how much. I have no head for figures. I’m like a child in financial matters. I say, dear boy, you’ll lend me a bit, won’t you? I’ve counted on you, you know.”