“And what, good God, shall we call the cow-faced specimen you spend the greater part of your days with⸺”
“She, too, is German pastry, more homely than you though⸺”
“Homely’s the word!”
“But not quite so fly-blown. Less variegated creams and German pretentiousness⸺”
“I see! And takes you more seriously than other people would be likely to! That’s what all your ‘quatch’ about ‘woman’ and ‘slave’ means. You know that!”
She had recovered from the effects of the drinks completely and was sitting up and talking briskly, looking at him with the same serious, rather flattened face she had had during their argument on Art and Death.
“I know you are a famous whore, who becomes rather acid in your cups!—when you showed me your legs this evening, I suppose I was meant⸺”
“Assez! Assez!!” She struck the table with her fist.
“Let’s get to business.” He put his hat on and leant towards her. “It’s getting late. Twenty-five francs, I’m afraid, is all I can manage.”