“Why should he single us out for such a confidence?” asked Martin. “He said last night that he was giving us a bit of his heart because we were good children—it was quite touching—but why should we be the only ones to have a bit of his heart?”
“Would you like to know?” asked Corinna, meeting his eyes full.
“I should.”
“He told me before you turned up at the Petit Cornichon, this morning, that you interested him as a sort of celestial freak.”
“I’m not sure whether to take that as a compliment or not,” replied Martin, pausing in the act of rolling a cigarette. “It’s tantamount to calling me an infernal ass.”
At this show of spirit the girl swiftly changed her tone.
“You may take it from me that Fortinbras doesn’t give a bit of his heart to infernal asses. If I had gone to him, on my own, he would never—you heard him—he would never have touched on ‘things precious to him.’ It’s for your sake, not mine.”
“But why?”
“Because he’s fed up with the likes of me,” said Corinna, with sudden bitterness. “There are hundreds and thousands of us.”
Martin knitted his brow. “I don’t understand.”