Bertha held out her hand brutally, in a sort of spasm of will: said, in the voice of “finality,”
“Good-bye, Sorbet: good-bye!”
He did not take it. She left it there a moment, saying again, “Good-bye!”
“Good-bye, if you like,” he said at length. “But I see no reason why we should part in this manner. If Kreisler wouldn’t mind”—he looked after him—“we might go for a little walk. Or will you come and have an apéritif?”
“No, Sorbert, I’d rather not.—Let us say good-bye at once; will you?”
“My dear girl, don’t be so silly!” He took her arm and dragged her towards a café, the first on the boulevard they were approaching.
She hung back, prolonging the personal contact, yet pretending to be resisting it with wonder.
“I can’t, Sorbert. Je ne peux pas!” purring her lips out and rolling her eyes. She went to the café in the end. For some time conversation hung back.
“How is Fräulein Lipmann getting on?”