Her face fixed in distended, rubicund, discontentedly resigned mask, she walked on beside him, the turkey-like backward-forward motion of fat neck marking her ruffled state. Kreisler sat down on a bench of the Boulevard du Paradis, she beside him.
“Dis! couldn’t you have borrowed the rest?” she said at last.
Kreisler was tired. He got up.
“No, of course I couldn’t. I hate people who lend money as I hate pawnbrokers.”
Suzanne listened, with protesting grin. Her head nodded energetically.
“Eh bien! si tout le monde pensait comme toi⸺!”
He pushed his moustache up and frowned pathetically.
“Où est Monsieur Volker?” she asked.
“Volker? I don’t know. He has no money.”
“Comment! Il n’a pas d’argent? C’est pas vrai! Tu ne le vois plus?”