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The autumn air, blithe and vivacious, elated Philip; and
when towards mid-day they stood in the great court-yard
of the Louvre, he felt inclined to cry like Flanagan: To hell
with art.
‘I say, do let’s go to one of those restaurants in the Boul’
Mich’ and have a snack together, shall we?’ he suggested.
Miss Price gave him a suspicious look.
‘I’ve got my lunch waiting for me at home,’ she an-
swered.
‘That doesn’t matter. You can eat it tomorrow. Do let me
stand you a lunch.’
‘I don’t know why you want to.’
‘It would give me pleasure,’ he replied, smiling.
They crossed the river, and at the corner of the Boulevard
St. Michel there was a restaurant.
‘Let’s go in there.’
‘No, I won’t go there, it looks too expensive.’
She walked on firmly, and Philip was obliged to follow.
A few steps brought them to a smaller restaurant, where a
dozen people were already lunching on the pavement under
an awning; on the window was announced in large white
letters: Dejeuner 1.25, vin compris.
‘We couldn’t have anything cheaper than this, and it
looks quite all right.’
They sat down at a vacant table and waited for the om-
elette which was the first article on the bill of fare. Philip
gazed with delight upon the passers-by. His heart went out
to them. He was tired but very happy.
‘I say, look at that man in the blouse. Isn’t he ripping!’

Of Human Bondage