Free The Thinking Reed by Rebecca West

the door, but turned back to caress the two wire-haired terriers that stood on the seat beside the Negro chauffeur, lifting up muzzles sharp as cut tin and howling because they were not to go with their master. Then he continued towards the restaurant, not seeing her within the darkness of the porch because of the bright sunshine. His lower lip pouted forward, he stared at his feet and from time to time sadly shook his head; he looked like a child going to an interview which might mean a beating.
    When he found her waiting for him, he came to a standstill. He took his hat in both hands and held it in front of him and said, “Oh, Isabelle, my little one, my little cabbage, my little angel, I am very stupid, nearly everybody is cleverer than I am, I often do not understand things properly. But say I was not wrong about what I thought you meant on the telephone this morning?”
    She nodded and smiled. “You were right.”
    He continued to stand quite still, and twirled his hat round and round and round, his face growing very red. “Isabelle,” he said, “my Isabelle.”
    She remembered the click her brain had given when she had spoken of his goodness, telling her that the statement she had meant to be false was in fact true; and it shamed her that she was making him so solemnly happy by what she had coldly conceived as a ruse to protect her pride. Penitently she murmured, “I will try to be good to you, Marc.”
    Tears stood in his rich animal eyes, he ceased to twirl his hat, he crumpled it in his fist. “It is I who must try to be good,” he growled. He took her hand and crushed it against his warm, throbbing, rubbery side.
    The tears stood in her eyes also, in another moment they would roll down her cheeks. She said, “My dear, I have been lunching here with Laurence Vernon. He is out there on the terrace. You cannot think how much I like him, you must be friends. Come out and meet him.”
    “Ah yes,” said Marc. “I must be very polite to your friends. It will be my only way of winning them, they will be all so much cleverer than I am.” But as they went he slipped his arm through hers and tugged her back. “And our marriage,” he begged like a dog. “When can it be?”
    “As soon as you like.”
    “Ha, ha! Next week?”
    “Next week, if you will.”
    “But it can’t be,” he cried, “that I am going to be married to you next week? My God, I am going to be married to you next week?”
    A waiter passed them, carrying two glasses of brandy on a tray. Marc’s left foot clothed in a yellow shoe shot out and caught him on the behind. The tray clattered on the floor underneath the caisse, a wall was streaked by two brown stains and shivers of glass, the waiter howled, the caissiere bent forward a Roman eyebrow and a fortress bosom, the vestiaire ran out holding one grey and two brown hats, chasseurs swarmed, glad that this time nobody could say it was their fault, the maîtres d’hôtel of the inside and outside restaurants ran in and stood like stars in conjunction.
    “Ah, mesdames, messieurs,” said Marc, “it’s only me.”
    “Ah, good day, Monsieur Sallafranque,” said the maîtres d’hôtel, laughing.
    “Forgive me, Gustave,” said Marc, bringing out his wallet. “I had need of a behind just then, for purposes of celebration, and yours was the only one that was handy. But here’s something!” He flipped a thousand-franc note on to the man’s palm. “And here’s another, Madame, for the damage and the nerves of the personnel.” It drifted on to the mahogany of the caisse.
    The waiter grinned, the Roman eyebrow abated and the fortress became more like a pleasure palace, the vestiaire, the chasseurs, the maîtres d’hôtel flowed backwards like an ebbing tide, in a rhythmic series of obeisances.
    “But, Marc,” breathed Isabelle, “but, Marc!”
    “Ah, little one, don’t bother about that!” said Marc. “I am very impulsive, and sometimes I like to do silly things pour rigolo, but