The Collected Short Stories of Conrad Aiken

THE NECKTIE

“Oh, Henry, darling! My smelling salts! Will you be so kind?”

There it was again—that eternal headache. How did she endure it? How did she ever endure it? Her life was one long martyrdom to headaches. Headaches and jealousy. Henry jumped up and took down the small handbag from the rack. The train swayed, and in taking an involuntary step to balance himself, he trod on Charlotte’s foot. She gave a faint scream—a faint middle-aged scream.

“Oh!” she wailed. “Henry!”

“My poor little Charlotte! My poor Charlotte! Is it very bad? There it is. Now you shut your eyes and try to take a nice little nap until we get to Paris. There’s a whole hour. Shut your eyes, dear!… That’s right!”

Charlotte took a deep breath at the green bottle, and a look of ineffable relief came over her suffering face. She relaxed in her corner, gave a little comfortable wriggle, and then, with an adoring look at Henry, allowed her quivering eyelids to close. Poor Charlotte! Poor, poor Charlotte! It would be a good thing if she could have a little sleep—otherwise the first night in Paris was sure to be too much for her. Far too exciting. And especially as she had been looking forward to it for so long. She would be sure to go to bed right after dinner—or was this one of the nights when she would go before, and have a tray sent up? Very likely. Weeeeeee—weeeeee—said the train. Absurdly small voices, these European trains had—like children, compared with American trains. American trains with their hoarse, coarse, lugubrious nocturnal moans. He tried to look out of the window, to see what they were passing, but it was too dark. A cluster of lights whisked by, very close, and a single light farther off, more slowly. Was it a tunnel they were coming to? No, a bridge. Rattle rattle rattle, a hollow nostalgic clatter, the voice of the void. A gully of some sort, or a small river. These European rivers were so absurdly small and neat. No—too dark to see a thing. All he could see was the reflection of his own face—his round spectacles, his round chin, his thin middle-aged hair parted in the middle. Funny ineffectual face he had, so young too for forty-five. Pity he kept so young-looking, while poor Charlotte was aging so fast. Too bad, too bad. That was what made her so jealous, of course—that, and the fact that he was so—that he was so—very attractive to women. Why was it that women liked him? It was a mystery. He had never understood it. Of course, he always dressed well—always. The high collar—and stand-up collars were so rare nowadays that they gave one a distinguished look—the black cord running to his glasses, the rich tie, the well-cut suit. But it was more than that. Too bad, too bad. And here was Paris! Here they were, almost at Paris! He must, he positively must, have a party, a celebration of some kind. If Charlotte, poor little Charlotte didn’t feel up to it, why then he would go out alone. After dinner he would go out. Just for a prowl, a drink or two, and to see the gay crowds. Perhaps one of those sidewalk cafés he had heard so much about. Or even the Folies Bergères. How exciting, how delightful it would be! And what a good thing he had polished up his French! It had certainly proved perfectly adequate at the douane. That official had been very polite to him—very polite. And all these signs in the train were so ridiculously easy to read! Ne pas se pencher au dehors, for instance. Even if it weren’t also given in English that would be childishly simple. Signal d’alarme, too—really, all one needed was a little intelligence, so many of the French words were exactly like the English ones. And this, of course, was the season for bock. Was it un bock or une bock? Oh, well, it didn’t matter, so long as one made oneself understood. And these Frenchmen did most of their talking with their hands anyway—conversation was a form of physical exercise. You said bock, and then drew one hand upward from the other, indicating in the air a nice tall cold glass with an amber fluid in it. The very smile with which you said it was probably enough to suggest what it was that you wanted. Said he with a bockish smile, or smiling bockily.

Wheeeee—wheeeeee—said the train again. More lights sliding past, whole thick constellations of them, triangles, oblongs, circles and squares, Cassiopeia, the Pleiades, and Charles’ Wagon. They must be getting close to Paris—closer than they thought. Perhaps they were almost there. Perhaps he ought to wake up poor Charlotte. No, let the poor child sleep. How pathetic she looked, snuggled up there in the corner with the blue cape over her knees and the green bottle getting ready to slip from her pale little hand. Here she was, almost at Paris, and still suffering, while he—while he—made his plans for a nice little party. Too bad, too bad. Was it Montmartre that one went to? Well, he would just go out and walk around, and if he got lost he could always take one of those taxis you were always hearing about. Hotel Angleterre, s’il vous plaît. Or was it d’Angleterre? No matter. Avenue Victoria. Châtelet. The train gave a jerk, a series of jerks, and began stopping. Henry sprang up, electrified. No, it was going on again. Suburban stations. He sat down, sighed, then reached across and gently, gently, removed the green bottle from poor Charlotte’s sleeping hand. Even in her sleep she seemed to be grateful to him. And what for? For his perpetual sympathy and kindness? But could he do less for one who suffered so, one whom he loved so? Too bad, too bad.… Nevertheless, it was a fact that she had aged very fast, while he—ah, it was most unfair, most unfair. Just a little prowl, a drink of bock, to see the foreign crowds and the Parisian lights. Just that, or perhaps—if poor Charlotte felt up to it, of course, they would go together and sit in a café and have a coffee. Garçon! Deux cafés au lait, deux. How was it possible to begrudge her that simple pleasure? He removed the stopper, the little green coronet, and sniffed, once, twice, three times; the green flame licked a corner at the very back of his brain. Whoof!… like a little snake. Strange, how the odor seemed to tickle the very medulla oblongata and to permeate one’s whole consciousness. And think of having to do that all the time, day after day, year after year, till one was—

They were in the station, they were really stopping. He must have fallen asleep himself.

“Charlotte! Charlotte!”

Charlotte opened bewildered and adoring eyes. Pandemonium. Cape, steamer-rug, umbrellas, and three bags. He was holding up six fingers to the porter who slung the bags one by one on his strap. Then they were in the taxi, a garishly lighted stone-paved square, they were passing sidewalk cafés, and green trees imprisoned in cages. He took Charlotte’s hand in his and patted it.

“Darling! How do you feel?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Henry dear, to spoil it all for you!… I’ll have to go to bed.… Will you forgive me?”

“Of course I’ll forgive you.”

Oh! The hotel was too gorgeous, far too gorgeous. A brilliantly illuminated glass canopy, officials in green uniforms, more officials in dress suits, obsequious porters, and a haughty young woman at the desk who gave them their keys. Two adjoining rooms, but they regretted that there was no adjoining bath. If there had been more warning … Madame would like to see the menu? Certainly. The tray would be sent up at once. A little vol-au-vent and some coffee. For two? No, monsieur would come down to dinner. The dining room was just there, and he would find a table reserved. Oh, damn—he would have to dress for it. Far too gorgeous, far far too gorgeous.

However, the dinner passed off well enough. Eight-forty-five. It would now only take a jiffy to change back into ordinary clothes. Was poor Charlotte asleep?… He tiptoed to the door and opened it softly. Dark, and not a sound. The four-poster bed pale in the gloom, and slotted light coming through the French blinds, which swayed a little in the air that came from the Seine. Tap-tap went the blinds, and he closed the door again. Just as well he had changed in the dark—the light through the transom might have waked her. Where had he put his hat? On the bed, of course. An umbrella? No, the stars were out. A warm starlit evening in Paris, an evening in May. He began humming to himself—

“On a warm day in the spring

Auntie sent me marketing;

Birds were twittering, tra-la-la …

Gaily twittering—”

So this was Paris. And all these crowds in the street were French, and all these lights were the lights of Paris. Too bad poor Charlotte wasn’t with him to share in the excitement. And there was the Châtelet theater, with a huge sign announcing the Ballet Russe. Too bad, too bad. He turned away from the river, and came to a broad boulevard—what could it be? Ah—the rue de Rivoli. He had heard of that, often. A famous street, a street known all over the world. To walk along the rue de Rivoli was almost ipso facto to become a distinguished person. Everybody looked well-dressed, especially the women—French women certainly knew how to dress. Charming hats! Delicious shoes! And they seemed to walk with such gaiety and joie de vivre! He fancied that one or two of them just faintly smiled at him—just faintly, but flatteringly. He too was well-dressed, a distinguished person—probably they recognized him to be a foreigner, an American, and very likely they were thinking him some very famous or wealthy man, or a diplomat. He straightened himself a little, and walked with a joyful insouciance—that was the word, insouciance. And here, just at the right moment was a café. He would have coffee.

“Café noir,” he said, holding up one finger. And then, when it had been brought, “Combien?”

All very simple and nice, though it couldn’t say very much for the coffee. But what next? A bus was stopping by the kerb and without the slightest hesitation he jumped on and went inside. He seated himself, and found that the bus would take him to the Etoile. Nothing could be better. The fare paid, he turned to look out at the crowded sidewalk, also regarding for a second his own reflection. Heavens! Good Lord! He had on no necktie! What could have—how could he—he remembered laying it out—it was changing in the dark that had done it! Was it possible? Yes—there was the stand-up collar, but no tie. A naked white expanse, which, even in the dim reflection afforded by the bus window, looked extremely silly. No—he mustn’t put up his hand to feel it—that would draw attention to the disaster. How awful, how incredibly awful and humiliating! And what was he to do? Not even an overcoat he could put on! It was like one of those dreams in which you find yourself at a tea-party with no clothes on, and on the point of shaking hands with a duchess! All very well in a dream, but in real life! Not so funny. Shops? No. The shops were all closed at this hour. No wonder all those people had smiled at him. Flatteringly, indeed! No such luck. And that girl across the aisle was looking at him now. Good lord, how simply frightful. Impossible to stay here—he must get off, dive into a side street, preferably a dark and shabby one, and get time for reflection.

He did so, first turning up his coat lapels, and clutching them together against his throat. The conductor looked at him, astonished, frankly and physically astonished. These French had no reticences at all. Perhaps, if he kept his hand up like this, they would merely think that he had a sore throat. He walked toward the river again, along a street none too dark, and at the corner came to another café. A drink would do no harm. And there was a table behind a lattice, where he would be partially screened. Good idea. He sat down and lifted a finger toward the waiter.

“Whisky,” he said.

“Large or small?” said the waiter.

“You speak English?” said Henry.

“Un peu.”

“A large, a very large one,” said Henry.

Here was a ray of hope. Perhaps, if he explained his predicament the waiter would make some brilliant suggestion. But if not—then what on earth was he to do? Go back to the hotel? Heavens, no. Every one would see it, and they would think—and the very first night he was there, too! Impossible to get in through that garish entrance, with all those uniformed Frenchmen standing about doing nothing, without being detected; clearly impossible. Something else would have to be improvised. One of them would probably have the cheek to come right up to him and speak about it. Pardon, he would say, but monsieur has neglected his necktie. Or something like that. And then a sly smirk.… Good lord.

“Whisky,” said the waiter.

This was the moment—but suddenly he felt shy about it. Better wait till after the next drink. But no, the longer it was left, the more difficult it was to explain. He lifted his finger again at the retreating waiter. What a blessing that he spoke English.

“A moment, waiter,” he said. “Perhaps you could be so kind as to tell me where I could get a necktie.”

“Pardon?” said the waiter.

“I have forgotten a necktie,” said Henry, feeling somewhat foolish.

“Monsieur has forgotten something? A coffee?”

“No, a necktie! Do you understand? A necktie!”

Henry turned down his coat lapels and revealed his shame. The waiter’s hand at once made an intelligent gesture in the air.

“Ah! he cried, delighted, “monsieur has lost his cravat! He left it behind him, perhaps—when?” He ogled Henry with an offensively knowing look. Exactly. Just what these Frenchmen would suppose. It became more and more obvious that it would be impossible to go back to the Angleterre until he had somehow possessed himself of a tie. He felt weary, and drank his whisky at one gulp.

“No, no, you don’t understand. I was changing my clothes after dinner at my hotel and forgot to put on a necktie. Do you know where I could get one? I would be much obliged.…”

“Monsieur would like a cravat? Wait!” He dashed off to attend to a very fat Frenchman who had seated himself at a table. In a moment he was back again, skimming like a swallow. He wore a look of concentrated intelligence and held up one finger.

“If monsieur will wait five minutes,” he said, “I can get him a cravat. Very chic. A little black butterfly—comme ça.” He described two small wings in the air above Henry’s empty glass. “It is mine, but monsieur is welcome, if he will be so kind.”

“Thank you! I should be most grateful.… And another whisky, please.”

What a relief! Poof! The strain had been on the point of becoming quite unbearable. Now he would be able to resume his joyful excursion. The hotel again seemed a friendly place, and he felt a positive affection for the burly door-porter, as if he would like to shake him by the hand. The haughty girl at the desk also: a nice girl, very accommodating. Very very nice indeed, and rather handsome, if her eyes weren’t quite so protruding. Too bad, too bad. Ah—here he was, bringing the whisky in one hand and the tie—good lord, how frightful! one of those! One of those little machine-made things that hooked on to the stud! One of those abominations!

“Voilà, monsieur! Very chic, n’est-ce pas?” He held it off a little way, turning it admiringly. It was infinitesimal, not more than an inch and a half across, and on one wing was a spot.

“A little spot,” said the waiter, apologetically, “but it will see monsieur safely home. As you Americans say, any port in a storm! Ha! ha!”

He proffered the revolting insect, holding it exquisitely between thumb and finger—there was nothing to do but accept it.

“Thank you, thanks ever so much,” said Henry sadly. And now he would have to put it on! “Have you a mirror?”

“Inside, monsieur.”

Horror upon horror—with an ordinary collar it would not have been quite so bad; but with a stand-up collar it was appallingly plain to an observer that it was a made-up tie, for there were no strings. It perched on the stud with the detached air of a fly which had just alighted. How absurd! How odious! It gave him the look of a cheap comedian. Looking at himself in the mirror, through the white enamel letters which said “Amer Picon,” he suddenly felt sick—positively sick. Life had again became as black as the black hole of Calcutta.

“Very nice,” he murmured, “very nice.… I am most grateful to you.”

The waiter appeared slightly chagrined—he would perhaps have enjoyed seeing a little more enthusiasm than Henry at the moment could muster.

“It is very becoming,” he said.

“Oh, very,” said Henry, returning gloomily to his whisky. Very becoming. But becoming what? He drank his whisky morosely, paying no attention to the crowds that flowed past. Good heavens, to think of having his first night in Paris spoiled like this. And how on earth was he to manage his return to the Angleterre? It was now worse than ever. Walk into that grand lobby, under all those lights, with this absurd little clown’s necktie on? He would rather be killed: rather be killed. And on the other hand, if he stayed out late enough to escape the attentions of all save the door-porter what would Charlotte think? She I would be sure to wake—she always woke when it was inconvenient for her to do so. She would look at him in that mournful way, as if she were crying in her heart of hearts, and then lie awake all night. Poor little Charlotte! A martyrdom to jealousy, and so absolutely without cause. The visit to Paris would be spoiled for her; she would always suspect him of having spent the evening in the darkest of iniquity.…

Well, there was no use in staying here, anyway—he could hardly ask the waiter for another tie. Of course, he was less exposed here; but then he couldn’t just go on sitting all night. It was already ten o’clock as it was. Charlotte might be waking at any time and looking at her watch and then coming to his room to see if he had come back. Henry! are you here? Henry?… No Henry. No Henry for a long while yet, either. Better wander down to the river and then perhaps across to the other side—that was the Latin Quarter, and there perhaps they were more used to seeing middle-aged gentlemen who wore peculiar neckties. There would also be other cafés, where he might again try his luck.… A pity, too, when it was such a lovely spring night, so ideal for his first sight of the gay night-life of Paris. Good gracious, how disgusting it all was, a trifle like this upsetting everything. It was like a shabby little episode on the vaudeville stage, with himself as the ridiculous victim, laughed at by everyone. Well, at least he could turn up his coat collar again, though even that didn’t really conceal this poisonous little monstrosity.… No—there was a girl giggling at him this very minute! The strumpet! As for finding some nice girl and having a drink or two—quite innocently—before going home, that was now out of the question. Or almost. And he had rather looked forward to some such little adventure as that—just a little conversation—so interesting to see how life is lived in a foreign city. One of these midinettes you were always hearing about, so gay and carefree, so unselfish and warm-hearted! But no, it was impossible to look anyone in the eye, as long as he had on a tie like this. The brand of Cain, or the mark of the beast, or something.

He crossed the bridge. Ah, yes—there were the quayside bookstalls. How romantic to be sure. Oh, for a stall that sold neckties! He wandered on disconsolately, entered a wider street, a boulevard, and came then to some gardens, very pretty, with lights among green leaves of trees. Were these the Luxembourg Gardens? Very pretty, very pretty, and what a place for making love, as all these young people had discovered. My, my, that soldier and his girl. He began humming again

“On a warm day in the spring—”

but stopped at once. Impossible to be light-hearted. If it were only his carfare he wanted, that would be quite simple—he could beg, simply beg, till he found someone who believed his story. But beg for a necktie, at this hour! Could anything be more preposterous? He sat on a bench under a tree, shaded from a lamp, and pondered darkly on his singular misfortune. The sort of thing which one could not possibly have foreseen—who could have imagined it? Such misery to arise from a cause so very slight? “Oui oui oui oui!” cried a man’s voice, and “Non non non non!” cried a girl’s in answer, laughing. Well, that was easy to understand. That was indeed a kind of Esperanto. He rose again, and in a dark spot under an avenue of trees, suddenly plucked off the nefarious little tie and flung it away into the night. At least be rid of that, and start afresh. Somebody would find it tomorrow and wonder. As for him self—

The cellar café looked attractive—the sort of place you saw in movies, with Apaches dancing wildly. But there were no Apaches, and in fact no customers at all. Oh, yes, a girl at the counter on a high stool, drinking coffee. He had thought at first she was one of the staff, but he saw now that she had on a kind of tam-o’-shanter.

“Whisky,” he said to the sleepy waiter, holding up one finger.

“Whisky,” the waiter repeated sadly, and hobbled away behind the counter, shuffling his red carpet slippers on the stone floor. A martyr to his feet. Too bad, too bad. At the word “whisky” the girl lifted her coffee-glass from the counter and turned around. Dark excited eyes, very large, very dark. Very pretty indeed, and quite young. French, of course. Why so excited? Was she drunk? No, no. You never could tell with these French, they always looked so excited even when sober. Besides, she was drinking coffee. She tilted her glass and drank, eyeing him over the rim. My goodness—that was a dangerous look; the kind of look that wrecks empires. Ah! she had turned away again. Perhaps she had seen that he had no necktie. Confound. Slip-slap—slip-slap—came the old sleepy waiter, hobbling in his carpet slippers, with trouser-legs, much too long, lying in laps on his insteps. Advancing with a series of painful jerks, his activity seemed tremendous; but his progress was slow.

“Whisky,” he said, putting down the glass, and almost at the same moment the girl at the counter turned and spoke.

“Un café, garçon,” she said.

“Oui, mademoiselle.”

Those dark eyes again! Too marvelous! And looking with such—with such—demoralizing good humor—into his own! He raised his glass toward her and smiled. She smiled in answer; and then, when he beckoned, she slid down from her stool and came toward him with slow steps. Black satin slippers with silver buckles. A broad scarlet sash, from which a streamer fell at one side. He rose, put out his hand, bowed elegantly, and was on the point of saying “Bon jour” (which hardly seemed appropriate) when she, smiling delightfully (and a little shyly) exclaimed—

“Hello, American!”

Well, now! What was one to say to that?

“You knew I was American? You speak English?”

She shrugged her shoulders extravangantly and sat down. She looked at him with her dark good-natured eyes, she looked down at the table, from which she picked up a dead match, and then again looked humorously at him, this time obliquely.

“Not much,” she said. “A little. I can read.”

She clasped her slender hands under her chin.

“You will permit me to pay for your coffee, mademoiselle?”

“If you like.”

“Would you care for a glass of wine? or an Amer Picon?”

“No—I do not drink. Coffee only. Merci.”

“Coffee is bad for you. How can you sleep?”

“Sleep! I sleep all day. Till two—three—in afternoon!”

“No!”

“Oui oui!”

Slip-slap the waiter again, bearing coffee, and Henry paid for it. The waiter beamed upon them and murmured his thanks. How nice of him not to be surprised. How very nice of him, and how nice everything was—sitting in Paris, in this Apache place, with such a charming girl, and all so innocent too! It was delightful, an experience to remember all one’s life. But suddenly he remembered his necktie. Ah—he would tell her about it. It would amuse her.

“I am in trouble,” he said, smiling, “very serious trouble.”

“You are in trouble?”

She smiled doubtfully, seeing that he smiled, but at the mention of trouble her dark eyes (magnificent!) had grown even darker with a beautiful swiftness of sympathy.

“You are in trouble, great trouble? It would be good to speak of it?”

“Great, great trouble.… I have forgotten to put on a necktie.”

“You have forgotten to—?”

“Put on a necktie—a cravat.”

He raised his hand to his naked collar, parting his coat lapels. She opened her eyes very wide, very wide, and they grew intensely bright, as if whole chandeliers had been lighted in them.

“Oh!” she cried. “How droll! Monsieur has forgotten to wear a cravat!”

“Exactly—a cravat!”

She began to laugh, with a soft dovelike sound, leaning forward on the table. She put her hand on top of his, just for a second, quick as a wing.

“Oh, how droll!” she cried. “How funny it makes you look!”

“But it is serious! I can’t go back to my hotel!”

“Comment?”

She didn’t at once fathom this.

“I can’t go back to my hotel.… What would they think? It is very, very serious!”

“Serious? Ah!…” She stared at him, sobering, her eyes resuming their natural look of melancholy good-humor. She still smiled a little, however. “You are married, perhaps,” she then added.

“Yes, married. And what would the concierge think?”

“Ah, I see. It is very serious. Life and death. You will be disgrace.”

“Disgrace! You bet I will.”

Her eyes twinkled with delicious malice, and she was on the point of laughing again, but instead she picked up the dead match and touched with it the edge of his sleeve.

“No,” she said, “I will save you. If you will be so kind and give me one more coffee.”

“You will save me!” His heart gave a great bound of joy. “Waiter! Garçon! Un café! Et whisky!… But how?”

She waved the match before him, mysterious.

“You will see,” she said. “I suprise you! Ha ha! How funny you are!”

She gave a wriggle of delight, shaking her dark head. Was she laughing at him? But no, it was sympathetically. She tittered, and took a sip of coffee, and tittered again. Henry shook his finger at her sternly.

“You are making fun of me!” he said. “Now, now!”

“Non, non, but it is so droll!… and I will save you from this disgrace—this—how you say épouvantable?”

“Frightful?”

“—this frightful disgrace! You must thank me. Yes, you must!”

“Thank you! I should say I would!… But how are you going to save me?”

“You have finish your whisky? All right. You go, and wait outside, not far. In a minute I come too. It is not good to see me go out with you. Comprenez? I stay and finish my café.”

What a delicious turn of fortune! And such a nice girl! Still, it was high time that something turned up, and time he was back at the hotel. What must poor Charlotte be thinking? Heavens! He walked fifty yards away from the café, and then turned and walked slowly back. Twenty minutes past eleven. Too late—far too late. Otherwise he might ask her to come out to supper with him somewhere, or to a dance-hall—what fun that would be! But no. This necktie business must be settled, and he must hurry back. Damnation. Life was always like this. Just as something nice and interesting occurred, destiny must intervene with some pressing engagement or responsibility which could not be ignored. Or else the event occurred when, as in this case, you were not in a proper state of mind for it—obsessed with something else. Too bad, too bad. And how thrilled Charlotte would be when she heard about it! But no—on second thought, she had better not hear about it. Goodness no—she would become insanely jealous, and wouldn’t believe a word of it! One of her mute reproachful spells, a four days’ headache, tears falling drop by drop in her secret romantic heart of hearts, and then a protracted and exhausting reconciliation. Poor, poor Charlotte—life was so hard for her; and the least he could do was to try and make it a little more bearable.… Ah! There she was! Coming with a little skip of joy, like a chamois! How young she looked, too! Not a day over twenty-five!

“Here I come!” she cried, taking his arm affectionately. “My room is over there—behind that corner. You can climb?”

“Climb?”

“Stairs?… Five stairs—one, two, three, four, five—poof!”

“Well, I think I might!”

“Come then! I go first. It is dark, a little.”

They had crossed a moonlit stone-paved court and entered a cavelike doorway, and were climbing the gas-lighted stone stairs. The last flight was completely dark, and she disappeared ahead of him, her slippers going pat-pat on the dusty stone. He was trying to feel his way along the wall when a match spurted, the gas went puff, and he was flooded with light from her open door. She was standing there, with a finger on her lips; and when he had entered the low attic room, with sloping walls, she closed the door behind him.

“My friend below asleep,” she said. “You like my room? Nice, eh?”

“Delightful! Geraniums, too.”

“And nice curtains, and a nice bed?”

“Charming!”

“Ah, you are frightful! You don’t look, you don’t like it, and you think only of your cravat! Egoist!”

“No no!”

“Oui oui! But see—I have pity on you. Look now.”

She pulled out the top drawer of a chest of drawers, clutching him by the sleeve. “Look!”

Well! You could have knocked him down with a feather! Astounding! The drawer was filled with neckties! Every kind! Striped, plain, diamonded, knitted—two dozen at the very least! It was like Christmas—he could feel the eyes fairly popping out of his head.

“Choose one,” she said, thrusting her hand among ties as one might dip among goldfish in an aquarium. “You like this one?”

She held up a heavy blue satin, luxuriously thick.

“Ah!” he cried, “a beauty! It’s beautiful. May I have it? You will let me buy it from you?”

“Buy it?” She looked blankly at him. “Buy it?”

He held the tie in his hand. She turned her shoulder against the drawer and slowly pushed it shut. Taking off her tam-o’-shanter, she flung it angrily on the bed. Then, leaning against the drawer, she looked at him with narrowing eyes, standing perfectly still.

“Oh,” she said, looking at him with an extraordinary in tensity of detachment. “You would like to buy it.”

“Why, of course! Why not?”

“Certainly not!” she cried, stamping her foot. “You can put it on and go! I give it to you.”

“Oh!” he stammered, suddenly perplexed. “What have I—’

“Put it on and go! Quick!”

“I beg your pardon!” he cried. “I didn’t mean—”

“Here! Give it to me.”

She snatched the tie, whisked it round his collar, tied it swiftly, tucked the ends under his waistcoat, and then went lightly to the door and threw it open. She pointed dramatically down the stairs. As he hesitated, she gave him a little push. She was smiling: ironically, cynically, with an infinite contempt.

“You will not permit me to see you again?”

“Good night!”

“Mademoiselle, forgive me! And let me thank you!”

“Good night!”

“You will not even shake hands with me?”

“Good night!”

Implacable, she began slowly shutting the door. In the narrowing crack of light he descended, keeping close to the wall, which smelt of damp white-wash. His heart was beating with uncomfortable violence.… Well!… Well!… Who could have foreseen—who could have guessed—that it would be like that! He had offended her! She had expected—had she expected him to—make love to her? No, no. It was just that he had been—had been—too greedy! Seeing all those ties in that drawer!… Oh, oh, oh. And it had been so nice talking to her, and perhaps he would have asked her to come out to supper with him—

He stood still in the court for a moment, still breathing a little fast. The moon was shining. The light from her attic room gashed across a tiled roof opposite, and a shadow moved in the gash of light.… Well! He had his necktie. And it would really have been too late, anyway. Perhaps it was just as well.… Too bad, too bad.