“Cabbage, of course!” he said. “The pension upstairs is full of it. I live there, and I've eaten so much of it I could be served up with pork.”
“I am going to live there. Is it as bad as that?”
He waved a hand toward the parcels on the floor.
“So bad,” he observed, “that I keep body and soul together by buying strong and odorous food at the delicatessens—odorous, because only rugged flavors rise above the atmosphere up there. Cheese is the only thing that really knocks out the cabbage, and once or twice even cheese has retired defeated.”
“But I don't like cheese.” In sheer relief from the loneliness of the day her spirits were rising.
“Then coffee! But not there. Coffee at the coffee-house on the corner. I say—” He hesitated.
“Yes?”
“Would you—don't you think a cup of coffee would set you up a bit?”
“It sounds attractive,”—uncertainly.
“Coffee with whipped cream and some little cakes?”
Harmony hesitated. In the gloom of the hall she could hardly see this brisk young American—young, she knew by his voice, tall by his silhouette, strong by the way he had caught her. She could not see his face, but she liked his voice.
“Do you mean—with you?”
“I'm a doctor. I am going to fill my own prescription.”
That sounded reassuring. Doctors were not as other men; they were legitimate friends in need.
“I am sure it is not proper, but—”
“Proper! Of course it is. I shall send you a bill for professional services. Besides, won't we be formally introduced to-night by the landlady? Come now—to the coffee-house and the Paris edition of the 'Herald'!” But the next moment he paused and ran his hand over his chin. “I'm pretty disreputable,” he explained. “I have been in a clinic all day, and, hang it all, I'm not shaved.”
Prev.
Back
Top