And he pictured all the other
resorts, great and small, garlanded with white lanterns, in the
Champs Elysees; and the sombre aisles of the Champs Elysees where
mysterious pale figures walked troublingly under the shade of
trees, while snatches of wild song or absurd brassy music floated
up from the resorts and restaurants. He wanted to go out and spend
those fifty francs that remained in his pocket. After all, why not
telegraph to England for more money? "Oh, damn it!" he said
savagely, and stretched his arms and got up. The Lounge was very
small, gloomy and dreary.
One brilliant incandescent light burned in the hall, crudely
illuminating the wicker fauteuils, a corded trunk with a blue-and-
red label on it, a Fitzroy barometer, a map of Paris, a coloured
poster of the Compagnie Transatlantique, and the mahogany retreat
of the hall-portress. In that retreat was not only the hall-
portress--an aged woman with a white cap above her wrinkled pink
face--but the mistress of the establishment. They were murmuring
together softly; they seemed to be well disposed to one another.
The portress was respectful, but the mistress was respectful also.
The hall, with its one light tranquilly burning, was bathed in an
honest calm, the calm of a day's work accomplished, of gradual
relaxation from tension, of growing expectation of repose.
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