It was Istra. She
stood at his door, smart and inconspicuous in a black suit with
a small toque that hid the flare of her red hair.
"Come," she said, abruptly. "I want you to take me to
Olympia's--Olympia Johns' flat. I've been reading all the
Balzac there is. I want to talk. Can you come?"
"Oh, of course--"
"Hurry, then!"
He seized his small foolishly round hat, and he tucked his new
walking-stick under his arm without displaying it too proudly,
waiting for her comment.
She led the way down-stairs and across the quiet streets and
squares of Bloomsbury to Great James Street. She did not even
see the stick.
She said scarce a word beyond:
"I'm sick of Olympia's bunch--I never want to dine in Soho with
an inhibition and a varietistic sex instinct again--_jamais de
la vie._ But one has to play with somebody."
Then he was so cheered that he tapped the pavements boldly with
his stick and delicately touched her arm as they crossed the
street. For she added:
"We'll just run in and see them for a little while, and then you
can take me out and buy me a Rhine wine and seltzer.
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