'What does she propose to do with it?'
I thought of the cobbled square in Monaco and the house with the narrow window.
I could be off there by three o'clock with my sketchbook and pencil, and I told him as much, a little shyly perhaps, like all untalented persons with a pet hobby.
'I'll drive you there in the car,' he said, and would not listen to protests.
I remembered Mrs Van Hopper's warning of the night before about putting myself forward and was embarrassed that he might think my talk of Monaco was a subterfuge to win a lift.
It was so blatantly the type of thing that she would do herself, and I did not want him to bracket us together.
I had already risen in importance from my lunch with him, for as we got up from the table the little mattre d'hotel rushed forward to pull away my chair.
He bowed and smiled — a total change from his usual attitude of indifference — picked up my handkerchief that had fallen on the floor, and hoped 'mademoiselle had enjoyed her lunch'.
Even the page-boy by the swing doors glanced at me with respect.
My companion accepted it as natural, of course; he knew nothing of the ill-carved ham of yesterday.
I found the change depressing, it made me despise myself.
I remembered my father and his scorn of superficial snobbery.
'What are you thinking about?' We were walking along the corridor to the lounge, and looking up I saw his eyes fixed on me in curiosity.
'Has something annoyed you?' he said.
The attentions of the maitre d'hotel had opened up a train of thought, and as we drank coffee I told him about Blaize, the dressmaker.
She had been so pleased when Mrs Van Hopper had bought three frocks, and I, taking her to the lift afterwards, had pictured her working upon them in her own small salon, behind the stuffy little shop, with a consumptive son wasting upon her sofa.
I could see her, with tired eyes, threading needles, and the floor covered with snippets of material.
'Well?' he said smiling, 'wasn't your picture true?'
'I don't know,' I said, 'I never found out.'
And I told him how I had rung the bell for the lift, and as I had done so she had fumbled in her bag and gave me a note for a hundred francs.
'Here,' she had whispered, her tone intimate and unpleasant, 'I want you to accept this small commission in return for bringing your patron to my shop.'
When I had refused, scarlet with embarrassment, she had shrugged her shoulders disagreeably.
'Just as you like,' she had said, 'but I assure you it's quite usual.
Perhaps you would rather have a frock.
Come along to the shop some time without Madame and I will fix you up without charging you a sou.'
Somehow, I don't know why, I had been aware of that sick, unhealthy feeling I had experienced as a child when turning the pages of a forbidden book.
The vision of the consumptive son faded, and in its stead arose the picture of myself had I been different, pocketing that greasy note with an understanding smile, and perhaps slipping round to Blaize's shop on this my free afternoon and coming away with a frock I had not paid for.
I expected him to laugh, it was a stupid story, I don't know why I told him, but he looked at me thoughtfully as he stirred his coffee.
'I think you've made a big mistake,' he said, after a moment.
'In refusing that hundred francs?' I asked, revolted.
'No — good heavens, what do you take me for?
I think you've made a mistake in coming here, in joining forces with Mrs Van Hopper.
You are not made for that sort of job.
You're too young, for one thing, and too soft.
Blaize and her commission, that's nothing.
The first of many similar incidents from other Blaizes.
You will either have to give in, and become a sort of Blaize yourself, or stay as you are and be broken.
Who suggested you took on this thing in the first place?'
It seemed natural for him to question me, nor did I mind.
It was as though we had known one another for a long time, and had met again after a lapse of years.
'Have you ever thought about the future?' he asked me, 'and what this sort of thing will lead to?
Supposing Mrs Van Hopper gets tired of her "friend of the bosom", what then?'
I smiled, and told him that I did not mind very much.
There would be other Mrs Van Hoppers, and I was young, and confident, and strong.
But even as he spoke I remembered those advertisements seen often in good class magazines where a friendly society demands succour for young women in reduced circumstances; I thought of the type of boarding-house that answers the advertisement and gives temporary shelter, and then I saw myself, useless sketch-book in hand, without qualifications of any kind, stammering replies to stern employment agents.
Perhaps I should have accepted Blaize's ten per cent.
'How old are you?' he said, and when I told him he laughed, and got up from his chair.
'I know that age, it's a particularly obstinate one, and a thousand bogies won't make you fear the future.
A pity we can't change over.
Go upstairs and put your hat on, and I'll have the car brought round.'