"
To show her resoluteness, she took off her shabby overcoat and started
to arrange her belongings, an impossible suitcase and something heavy
rolled in a yellow and red blanket, looking to me from time to time
with curiosity and doubt.
"Lucie de Clive! A woman certainly could not think of anything less
snobbish even in these circumstances. You look like a real Russian
Katka-Chort in this outfit."
"That's what is required. How did you happen to pick out _your name_?"
We both laughed. Indeed, if our meeting were compared to all the
luxury and brilliance of the Cote d'Azur, or Petrograd--it was
laughable. "Have _we_ anything to eat?" she asked.
"I came home for my supper," I said. "I have some trash in the
pantry."
While I was preparing in the so-called kitchen something nice out of
a piece of frozen pilmeni--hashed meat and an old can of sardines (my
pride) she began to arrange the room. She acted as if she were trying
to justify her presence, it was clear. But with all the pleasure of
seeing someone around my house, I simply could not think what had
happened to her. Baroness B.--a lady who would not hesitate in olden
times to play a thousand pounds on a horse or order ten dresses at
Paquin's,--here, asking my hospitality! If she were a Russian--I could
understand it,--wives of Privy Counsellors and Ambassadors are selling
cheese in Petrograd now. But she--a Foreign Lady?.
Pages:
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171