THE MOON AND SIXPENCE. Уильям Сомерсет Моэм

phrases of English. She made me translate what she could only express in her own tongue, and eagerly asked for the meaning of his replies. He was quite good-tempered, a little amused, but his indifference was obvious.

      "I think you've made a conquest," I laughed.

      "I'm not flattered."

      In his place I should have been more embarrassed and less calm. She had laughing eyes and a most charming mouth. She was young. I wondered what she found so attractive in Strickland. She made no secret of her desires, and I was bidden to translate.

      "She wants you to go home with her."

      "I'm not taking any," he replied.

      I put his answer as pleasantly as I could. It seemed to me a little ungracious to decline an invitation of that sort, and I ascribed his refusal to lack of money.

      "But I like him," she said. "Tell him it's for love."

      When I translated this, Strickland shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

      "Tell her to go to hell," he said.

      His manner made his answer quite plain, and the girl threw back her head with a sudden gesture. Perhaps she reddened under her paint. She rose to her feet.

      "Monsieur n'est pas poli," she said.

      She walked out of the inn. I was slightly vexed.

      "There wasn't any need to insult her that I can see," I said. "After all, it was rather a compliment she was paying you."

      "That sort of thing makes me sick," he said roughly.

      I looked at him curiously. There was a real distaste in his face, and yet it was the face of a coarse and sensual man. I suppose the girl had been attracted by a certain brutality in it.

      "I could have got all the women I wanted in London. I didn't come here for that."