I did not know how he would
take the remark I had prepared.
"I've come to see you on behalf of your wife."
"I was just going out to have a drink before dinner.
You'd better come too. Do you like absinthe?"
"I can drink it."
"Come on, then."
He put on a bowler hat much in need of brushing.
"We might dine together. You owe me a dinner, you know."
"Certainly. Are you alone?"
I flattered myself that I had got in that important question
very naturally.
"Oh yes. In point of fact I've not spoken to a soul for three days.
My French isn't exactly brilliant."
I wondered as I preceded him downstairs what had happened to
the little lady in the tea-shop. Had they quarrelled already,
or was his infatuation passed? It seemed hardly likely if,
as appeared, he had been taking steps for a year to make his
desperate plunge. We walked to the Avenue de Clichy, and sat
down at one of the tables on the pavement of a large cafe.
Chapter XII
The Avenue de Clichy was crowded at that hour, and a lively
fancy might see in the passers-by the personages of many a
sordid romance. There were clerks and shopgirls; old fellows
who might have stepped out of the pages of Honore de Balzac;
members, male and female, of the professions which make their
profit of the frailties of mankind.
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