“But don’t you think he’s awful?” I said.
“No. I think he’s fun. He makes me laugh.”
“Don’t you know that he’s absolutely gone on you?”
“Well, it pleases him and it doesn’t do me any harm.”
“He’s old and fat and horrible. It gives me the creeps to look at him.”
“I don’t think he’s so bad,” said Rosie.
“You couldn’t have anything to do with him,” I protested. “I mean, he’s
such an awful cad.”
Rosie scratched her head. It was an unpleasant habit of hers.
“It’s funny how different foreigners are from English people,” she said.
I was thankful when Jack Kuyper went back to Amsterdam. Rosie had
promised to dine with me the day after and as a treat we arranged to
dine in Soho. She fetched me in a hansom and we drove on.
“Has your horrible old man gone?” I asked.
“Yes,” she laughed.
I put my arm round her waist. (I have elsewhere remarked how much more
convenient the hansom was for this pleasant and indeed almost essential
act in human intercourse than the taxi of the present day, so
unwillingly refrain from labouring the point.) I put my arm round her
waist and kissed her. Her lips were like spring flowers. We arrived. I
hung my hat and my coat (it was very long and tight at the waist, with a
velvet collar and velvet cuffs; very smart) on a peg and asked Rosie to
give me her cape.
“I’m going to keep it on,” she said.
“You’ll be awfully hot. You’ll only catch cold when we go out.”
“I don’t care. It’s the first time I’ve worn it. Don’t you think it’s
lovely. And look: the muff matches.”