But he began to feel hungry and looked at his watch.
It was half-past eight.
Lydia had not returned.
Perhaps she had no intention of doing so?
It wouldn’t be very nice of her to leave him like that, without a word of explanation or farewell, and the possibility made him rather angry, but then he shrugged his shoulders.
“If she doesn’t want to come back, let her stay away.”
He didn’t see why he should wait any longer, so he went out to dinner, leaving word at the porter’s desk where he was going so that if she came she could join him.
Charley wasn’t quite sure if it amused, flattered or irritated him, that the staff should treat him with a sort of confidential familiarity as though they got a vicarious satisfaction out of the affair which, naturally enough, they were convinced he was having.
The porter was smilingly benevolent and the young woman at the cashier’s desk excited and curious.
Charley chuckled at the thought of their shocked surprise if they had known how innocent were his relations with Lydia.
He came back from his solitary dinner and she was not yet there.
He went up to his room and went on reading, but now he had to make a certain effort to attend.
If she didn’t come back by twelve he made up his mind to give her up and go out on the loose.
It was absurd to spend the best part of a week in Paris and not have a bit of fun.
But soon after eleven she opened the door and entered, carrying a small and very shabby suitcase.
“Oh, I’m tired,” she said.
“I’ve brought a few things with me.
I’ll just have a wash and then we’ll go out to dinner.”
“Haven’t you dined?
I have.”
“Have you?”
She seemed surprised.
“It’s past eleven.”
She laughed.
“How English you are!
Must you always dine at the same hour?”
“I was hungry,” he answered rather stiffly.
It seemed to him that she really might express some regret for having kept him waiting so long.
It was plain, however, that nothing was farther from her thoughts.
“Oh, well, it doesn’t matter, I don’t want any dinner.
What a day I’ve had!
Alexey was drunk; he had a row with Paul this morning, because he didn’t come home last night, and Paul knocked him down.
Evgenia was crying, and she kept on saying:
‘God has punished us for our sins.
I have lived to see my son strike his father.
What is going to happen to us all?’
Alexey was crying too.
‘It is the end of everything,’ he said.
‘Children no longer respect their parents.
Oh, Russia, Russia!’ ”
Charley felt inclined to giggle, but he saw that Lydia was taking the scene in all seriousness.
“And did you cry too?”
“Naturally,” she answered, with a certain coldness.
She had changed her dress and now wore one of black silk. It was plain enough but well cut.
It suited her.
It made her clear skin more delicate and deepened the colour of her blue eyes.
She wore a black hat, rather saucy in shape, with a feather in it, and much more becoming than the old black felt.
The smarter clothes had had an effect on her; she wore them more elegantly and carried herself with a graceful assurance.
She no longer looked like a shop-girl, but like a young woman of some distinction, and prettier than Charley had ever seen her, but she gave you less than ever the impression that there was anything doing, as the phrase goes; if she had given before the effect of a respectable workgirl who knew how to take care of herself, she gave now that of a modish young woman perfectly capable of putting a too enterprising young man in his place.
“You’ve got a different frock on,” said Charley, who was already beginning to get over his ill humour.