“A friend of mine who had been there told me they were very ‘pretty’”—he pronounced the English word with mincing slowness and mischievous interrogation marks in his distorted face.
“Your friend did not exaggerate. They are like languid nectarines! You would enjoy yourself there.”
“But I can’t speak English—only a little. ‘I spik Ingleesh a leetle,’” he attempted with pleasure.
“Very good! You’d get on splendidly!”
Kreisler brushed his moustaches up, sticking his lips out in a hard gluttonous way. Tarr watched him with sympathetic curiosity.
“But—my friend told me—they’re not—very easy? They are great flirts. So far—and then bouf! You are sent flying!”
“You would not find anything to compare with the facilities of your own country. But you would not wish for that?”
“No?—But, tell me, then, they are cold?—They are of a calculating nature?”
“They are practical, I suppose, up to a certain point. But you must go and see.”