“Everybody’s sick. I’m sick, too.”
We came out of the Tuileries into the light and crossed the Seine and then turned up the Rue des Saints Pères.
“You oughtn’t to drink pernod if you’re sick.”
“You neither.”
“It doesn’t make any difference with me. It doesn’t make any difference with a woman.”
“What are you called?”
“Georgette. How are you called?”
“Jacob.”
“That’s a Flemish name.”
“American too.”
“You’re not Flamand?”
“No, American.”
“Good, I detest Flamands.”
By this time we were at the restaurant. I called to the cocher to stop. We got out and Georgette did not like the looks of the place. “This is no great thing of a restaurant.”
“No,” I said. “Maybe you would rather go to Foyot’s. Why don’t you keep the cab and go on?”
I had picked her up because of a vague sentimental idea that it would be nice to eat with someone. It was a long time since I had dined with a