“Ah, I wish I were fifteen again.”
Then she caught sight of a cat trying to get at a dish of prawns on the kitchen table, and with a dexterous gesture and a lively volley of abuse flung a book at its scampering tail.
“I asked him if he was happy with Ata.
“‘She leaves me alone,’ he said. ‘She cooks my food and looks after her babies. She does what I tell her. She gives me what I want from a woman.’
“‘And do you never regret Europe? Do you not yearn sometimes for the light of the streets in Paris or London, the companionship of your friends, and equals, que sais-je? for theatres and newspapers, and the rumble of omnibuses on the cobbled pavements?’
“For a long time he was silent. Then he said:
“‘I shall stay here till I die.’
“‘But are you never bored or lonely?’ I asked.
“He chuckled.
“‘Mon pauvre ami,’ he said. ‘It is evident that you do not know what it is to be an artist.’”