She did not know whether to be flattered or affronted that he had addressed her; and Gaymer was confirmed in his contemptuous diagnosis of the company’s narrow respectability. As she lacked experience and dignity to assert herself, he decided that she would respond to treatment which took her for granted. He smiled and sat down with confident composure.
“I’m waiting for my friend,” the girl answered doubtfully, looking past him to the door.
Gaymer inspected her critically. She was young, dark and anæmic with thin arms and a thin back bare to the waist; her extravagantly low-cut dress was incongruously rich half-covering to the meagre body which it so generously revealed, but she had abundant hair, warm lips and restless dark eyes. He looked away for a moment at the other women in their neighbourhood and decided that he had done well in choosing her; then he looked towards the door, trying to identify her “friend”.
“You’re not with that bandy-legged Yid, are you?,” he asked with disfavour, as a man left the door and approached their table.
The girl looked at him in open-mouthed surprise.
“Please not to speak like that about my friend!,” she exclaimed.
“You’ll enjoy yourself much more with me.”
“We—haven’t been introduced... And I can’t give him the go-by,” she answered uncertainly, impressed in spite of herself by his assurance.
“This is a table for two,” said Gaymer significantly, picking up the wine-list. “What are you going to drink?... God, what assorted poison! We’ll try the champagne; if it’s not fit to drink, we can fall back on an honest brandy and soda. What are you going to eat?”
Calling to a waiter, he began ordering dinner and was still absorbed in his task when the “friend” touched his shoulder and murmured deferentially: