Free Christmas Holiday by W. Somerset Maugham Page B

the aisle and waited again a little till all but a dozen people had gone out.
    “Would you like to walk a few steps?”
    “No, I’m so tired. Let’s get into a taxi.”
    But they had to walk a little after all, for they could not immediately find one. When they came to a street lamp she stopped and taking a mirror from her bag looked at herself. Her eyes were swollen. She took out a puff and dabbed it over her face.
    “There’s not much to be done,” he said, with a kindly smile. “We’d better go and have a drink somewhere. You can’t go back to the Sérail like that.”
    “When I cry my eyes always swell. It’ll take hours to go down.”
    Just then a taxi passed and Charley hailed it.
    “Where shall we go?”
    “I don’t care. The Select. Boulevard Montparnasse.”
    He gave the address and they drove across the river. When they arrived he hesitated, for the place she had chosen seemed crowded, but she stepped out of the taxi and he followed her. Notwithstanding the cold a lot of people were sitting on the terrace. They found a table within.
    “I’ll go into the ladies’ room and wash my eyes.”
    In a few minutes she returned and sat down by his side. She had pulled down her hat as far as she could to hide her swollen lids and had powdered herself, but she had put on no rouge and her face was white. Shewas quite calm. She said nothing about the passion of weeping that had overcome her and you might have thought she took it as a natural thing that needed no excuse.
    “I’m very hungry,” she said. “You must be hungry, too.”
    Charley was ravenous and while he waited for her had wondered whether in the circumstances it would seem very gross if he ordered himself bacon and eggs. Her remark relieved his mind. It appeared that bacon and eggs were just what she fancied. He wanted to order a bottle of champagne, thinking she needed the stimulant, but she would not let him.
    “Why should you waste your money? Let’s have some beer.”
    They ate their simple meal with appetite. They talked little. Charley, with his good manners, tried to make polite conversation, but she did not encourage him and presently they fell into silence. When they had finished and had had coffee, he asked Lydia what she would like to do.
    “I should like to sit here. I’m fond of this place. It’s cosy and intimate. I like to look at the people who come here.”
    “All right, we’ll sit here.”
    It was not exactly how he had proposed to pass his first night in Paris. He wished he hadn’t been such a fool as to take her to the Midnight Mass. He had not the heart to be unkind to her. But perhaps there was some intonation in his reply that struck her, for she turned a little to look him in the face. She gave himonce more the smile he had already seen two or three times on her. It was a queer sort of smile. It hardly moved the lips; it held no gaiety, but was not devoid of kindliness; there was more irony in it than amusement and it was rare and unwilling, patient and disillusioned.
    “This can’t be very amusing for you. Why don’t you go back to the Sérail and leave me here?”
    “No, I won’t do that.”
    “I don’t mind being alone, you know. I sometimes come here by myself and sit for hours. You’ve come to Paris to enjoy yourself. You’d be a fool not to.”
    “If it doesn’t bore you I’d like to sit here with you.”
    “Why?” She gave him on a sudden a disdainful glance. “Do you look upon yourself as being noble and self-sacrificing? Or are you sorry for me or only curious?”
    Charley could not imagine why she seemed angry with him or why she said these wounding things.
    “Why should I feel sorry for you? Or curious?”
    He meant her to understand that she was not the first prostitute he had met in his life and he was not likely to be impressed with a life-story which was probably sordid and in all likelihood untrue. Lydia stared at him with an expression which to him looked like incredulous