"Everybody's sick. I'm sick, too."
We came out of the Tuileries into the light and crossed the Seine and then turned up the Rue des Saints Pères.
"You oughtn't to drink pernod if you're sick."
"You neither."
"It doesn't make any difference with me. It doesn't make any difference with a woman."
"What are you called?"
"Georgette. How are you called?"
"Jacob."
"That's a Flemish name."
"American too."
"You're not Flamand?"
"No, American."
"Good, I detest Flamands."
By this time we were at the restaurant. I called to the cocher to stop. We got out and Georgette did not like the looks of the place. "This is no great thing of a restaurant."
"No," I said. "Maybe you would rather go to Foyot's. Why don't you keep the cab and go on?"
I had picked her up because of a vague sentimental idea that it would be nice to eat with some one. It was a long time since I had dined with a poule, and I had forgotten how dull it could be. We went into the restaurant, passed Madame Lavigne at the desk and into a little room. Georgette cheered up a little under the food.
"It isn't bad here," she said. "It isn't chic, but the food is all right."
"Better than you eat in Liège."
"Brussels, you mean."
We had another bottle of wine and Georgette made a joke. She smiled and showed all her bad teeth, and we touched glasses.
