On the chest of drawers lay a few detective novels; alongside a packet of dirty photographs.
Her visitors, especially married ones, liked to look at them sometimes.
Lisa swept them into a drawer, and took out a threadbare but clean tablecloth.
I unpacked the things.
In the meantime Lisa undressed.
First she took off her dress, though I knew very well her boots were hurting her most; she had so much walking to do.
There she stood in her high patent-leather boots to her knees and her black underwear.
"What do you think of my legs?" she asked.
"First class, as ever."
She was satisfied and now sat down on the bed with a sigh of relief to unlace her boots.
"A hundred and twenty marks they cost," said she, holding them up to me. "And before you've earned it they're through again."
She took a kimono from the cupboard and a pair of faded brocade slippers from better days. As she did so she smiled almost guiltily.
She did want to please.
I had a sudden choking feeling, up here in the little room, as if someone belonging to me had died.
We ate and I talked warily with her.
But she perceived, for all that, that something had changed.
Her eyes became fearful.
There had never been any more between us than chance had brought.
But perhaps that makes a greater indebtedness and binds closer than much else.
"Are you going?" she asked as I stood up—as if she had .already been fearing it.
"I have an appointment."
She looked at me.
"So late?"
"Business. Important for me, Lisa.
Someone I must try to see still.
At the Astoria usually around this time."
No women are more sensible about such things than girls like Lisa.
But no women are less easy to deceive.
Lisa's face became empty.
"You have another woman."
"But Lisa—we've seen so little of one another—almost a year now—you understand—"
"No, no, I don't mean that.
You've a woman you love.
You've altered.
I can feel it."
"Ach, Lisa—"
"Yes, yes.
Admit it."
"I don't really know myself, Lisa.
Perhaps—"
She stood awhile.
Then she nodded:
"Yes—yes—of course— And I'm so stupid—and we have nothing in common really—" She passed her hand over her forehead. "I don't know how I came to . . ."
Her slender figure stood before me pathetically desiring and frail.
The brocade slippers—the kimono—the long empty nights—memory . . .
"Au revoir, Lisa—"
"Are you going? You won't stay a bit longer?
You are going—already?"
I knew what she meant.
But I couldn't.