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had no gloves on, and her hands wanted washing. She was
so unattractive that Philip wished he had not begun to talk
to her. 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, with-
out 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 red-
dened 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. ‘French-
men 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 Amer-