Part 30 (1/2)
A few days later, when she was more or less recovered, Daniel told her how disappointed he had been that the arrangement had fallen through.
”I expect it was my guardian angel,” she whispered, with a laugh. ”I had made up my mind to come; and I suppose the angel read my thoughts, and said 'You'd better not,' and sprinkled a handful of germs over me.”
Daniel was startled. ”Why, you don't think that I...?” He paused. Men are seldom so plain-spoken as women, and seldom face facts so deliberately.
On the following afternoon he was obliged to go to the railway station to pay his farewell respects to a native dignitary on his departure for England upon a commercial mission; and, while walking back through the Levantine shopping quarter, he came upon Lizette who, as he now recollected, lived in this part of the city.
He had not seen her since that night, three and a half months ago, when he had taken her out to supper at Berto's; and he was distressed to observe the change that had taken place in her. She was looking thin and haggard, and her eyes were like the melancholy eyes of a sick dog.
She glanced at him as she approached and a quick smile of pleasure came into her face; but the etiquette which is always observed in the best circles on such occasions prevented her from showing recognition of a client in a public place. (Money-lenders and dentists follow much the same code.)
Daniel, however, knew nothing about such rules of polite conduct. If Lizette were good enough to talk to in a restaurant she ought to be good enough to salute in the street. He therefore pulled off his hat as she pa.s.sed, and, pausing, bid her good day.
”I believe you've forgotten me,” he declared.
”Forgotten?-no!” she exclaimed. ”I not ever forget that pig Barthampton jete par terre.”
”I'm sorry that's what you remember me by,” he answered, seriously.
”I remember many things,” she said. ”But now you are so great, so important: one say you are like the Wazir of Egypt. I astonish me that you speak here in the street. Lizette belong to the night, and to the American Bar.”
She spoke with bitterness, and Daniel was sorry for her. She looked ill; and the afternoon sun seemed to disintegrate the bloom of the powder upon her face.
”You're not looking very well,” he commented. ”Is there anything the matter?”
She shrugged her shoulders. ”The matter is here,” she answered, tapping her heart.
”In love?” he asked.
”No, not love,” she replied, with sudden intensity. ”Hate, hate!”
He shook his head. ”That's bad. Whom do you hate?”
”Men,” she said.
There was tragedy in her face; and Daniel, in his simple wisdom, guessed that what she needed was the friends.h.i.+p of a man who had no ulterior motive. He looked along the street, and, seeing that there was a large French cafe on the opposite side, asked her whether she would care to go in there and have coffee with him.
[Ill.u.s.tration: _A SCENE FROM THE PHOTOPLAY-BURNING SANDS_]
She hesitated for a moment; but when he had explained that he had no more than half an hour to spare, and that he could not employ the time better than by talking to her, she crossed the street with him and entered the cafe.
”Now tell me what your trouble is,” he said, when they were sipping their coffee at a table in the almost deserted saloon.
”O, it is nothing,” she replied. ”I suppose I am ill. I have-how do you say?-the 'ump, eh? If I had the courage I should suicide myself; but the priest he tell me that the little devils in h.e.l.l are men, and the angels in heaven are men: so you see I cannot escape from men.”
”Oh, men are not so bad,” he told her. ”You, of course, see them under rather startling circ.u.mstances; and, if I may say so, you can't always judge of what a man is by looking at a subaltern in the Guards.”
She laughed. ”But they tell me they are the elite of England.”
”Yes, poor lads,” he answered; ”but it's not their fault that they think so: it's due to other men being so bashful.”