"Don't want to, _hein_?"
"I hate that sort of thing."
(But she was making him into a ridiculous prig. She turned the values
of life topsy-turvy with that one ironic, good-natured gesture.)
"_Eh, bien_, it's a good thing for my sort there are not too many of
your sort, my friend. But per'aps it is not quite so bad as it seems,
for you 'are come after all."
"I had to," he thrust at her.
"'Ow you say--professionally?"
"Yes."
"But I 'ave not get ze tummy-ache--not yet."
"I don't care about you."
"You want to look after your leetle friend, _hein_?"
"Yes."
She was unruffled--even concerned to satisfy him.
"Well, then, you be policeman. You sit 'ere. It is always better to
watch ze thief than ze _coffre-fort_. You keep an eye on me and see I
don't run away with 'im. _Voyons, mesdames et messieurs_, our friend
'ere 'ave the place of honour. 'E sit next me and see I behave nice.
'E don't like me ver' much. 'E think me a bad woman."
They laughed with her and at him. He felt himself colour up and try to
laugh back. (And it was oddly like his attempt to propitiate Form I
when it had gibed him on that bitter pilgrimage from desk to desk.) He
took his place at her right hand. He could see Cosgrave half-way down
the table, and his thin, freckled face with its look of absurd
happiness. He was unselfishly overjoyed that his friend should have
been thus signalled out for honour. Perhaps he harboured some crazy
certainty that after this Stonehouse would understand and even share
his infatuation.
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