So he bravely passed through the
small rose-embroidered door into a small glass-covered courtyard,
furnished with palms, wicker armchairs, and two small tables; and
he lighted a pipe and pulled out of his pocket a copy of The
Referee. That retreat was called the Lounge; it was the only part
of the Pension where smoking was not either a positive crime or a
transgression against good form. He felt lonely. He said to
himself grimly in one breath that pleasure was all rot, and in the
next he sullenly demanded of the universe how it was that pleasure
could not go on for ever, and why he was not Mr. Barney Barnato.
Two old men entered the retreat and burnt cigarettes with many
precautions. Then Mr. Lewis Mardon appeared and sat down boldly
next to Matthew, like a privileged friend. After all, Mr. Mardon
was better than nobody whatever, and Matthew decided to suffer
him, especially as he began without preliminary skirmishing to
talk about life in Paris. An irresistible subject! Mr. Mardon said
in a worldly tone that the existence of a bachelor in Paris might
easily be made agreeable. But that, of course, for himself--well,
he preferred, as a general rule, the Pension Frensham sort of
thing; and it was excellent for his business.
Pages:
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752