Just as he was most out of his depth, Kreisler had run up against all this! It all had the mellowness of sunset, and boomed in this small alcove infernally.—By the fact of sex this figure seems to offer him a traditional substantiality. He clutches at it eagerly as at something familiar and unmetamorphosed—and somewhat unmetamorphosable—by Fate.
In the first flush he revolves with certain skill in this new champ de manœuvres, executing one or two very pretty gymnastics. He has only to flatter himself on the excellent progress, really, that he makes.
“My name is Anastasya,” she says irrelevantly to him, as if she had stupidly forgotten, before, this little detail.
Whew! his poor ragged eyelashes flutter, a cloud of astonishment passes grotesquely over his face; like the clown of the piece, he looks as though he were about to rub his head, click his tongue, and give his nearest man-neighbour an enthusiastic kick. “Anastasya!” It will be “Tasy” soon!
He outwardly becomes more solemn than ever, like a merchant who sees an incredible dupe before him, and would in some way conceal his exhilaration. But he calls her carefully at regular intervals, Anastasya!
“I suppose you’ve come here to work?” he asked.
“I don’t want to work any more than is absolutely necessary. I am overworked as it is, by living merely.” He could well believe it; she must do some overtime! “If it were not for my excellent constitution⸺”
This was evidently, Kreisler felt, the moment to touch on the heaviness of life’s burden; as her expression was perfectly even and non-committal.
“Ah, yes,” he sighed heavily, one side of the menu rising gustily and relapsing, “Life gives one work enough.”
She looked at him and reflected, “What work does ‘cet oiseau-là’ perform?”