He could not make out whether she wanted him to stay or go.
"I'll do anything I can for you," she said all at once, without reference
to anything that had gone before. "I know how hard it is."
"Thank you very much," said Philip, then in a moment: "Won't you come and
have tea with me somewhere?"
She looked at him quickly and flushed. When she reddened her pasty skin
acquired a curiously mottled look, like strawberries and cream that had
gone bad.
"No, thanks. What d'you think I want tea for? I've only just had lunch."
"I thought it would pass the time," said Philip.
"If you find it long you needn't bother about me, you know. I don't mind
being left alone."
At that moment two men passed, in brown velveteens, enormous trousers, and
basque caps. They were young, but both wore beards.
"I say, are those art-students?" said Philip. "They might have stepped out
of the Vie de Boheme."
"They're Americans," said Miss Price scornfully. "Frenchmen haven't worn
things like that for thirty years, but the Americans from the Far West buy
those clothes and have themselves photographed the day after they arrive
in Paris. That's about as near to art as they ever get. But it doesn't
matter to them, they've all got money."
Philip liked the daring picturesqueness of the Americans' costume; he
thought it showed the romantic spirit.
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