"Perhaps that's why I'm here," he said ironically.

"_Voyons--voyons, c'est ennuyeux_----" She broke off and gave a little
husky, good-natured laugh. "I remember. You think me a bad woman.
But I am not a bad woman at all. Ze leetle girls in ze chorus--they
are sometimes bad because they want things they 'ave no right to 'ave.
They are just leetle girls with nothing to give, and they want to live
ze big life and they tumble into ze gutter. They are ze ginger-beer
who pretend to be ze champagne. _Mais mot_--I am ze real champagne. I
make things seem jolly that are not jolly at all--ze woman who sit next
you at dinner--ze food--ze bills who wait for you at 'ome--life. If
you take too much of me you 'ave ze 'eadache. _Enfin, ce n'est pas ma
faute_. I 'ave so much to give. I 'ave so much life. One life--one
country--one 'usband is not enough. But I am not bad. If there was
any sense in things they would give me an order and a nice long
title--_Grande Maitresse de la Vie_--_Princesse de Joie_." She lifted
her eyebrows at him to see whether he appreciated the joke. "Ah
well--no. I talk too much about myself. Tell me instead what you
think of my leetle 'ome. _C'est joli, n'cest-ce-pas_?" She waved
towards the Chinese embroideries and added, with a child's absolute
content: "I like it."

"I suppose you do," he retorted. "It reminds me of a quaint old custom
I read about somewhere. When our early ancestors were building a
particularly important house they buried a few of the less important
citizens alive under the foundations. It seemed to have a beneficial
influence on the building process."

She offered him her cigarette-case. She seemed to be considering his
remark carefully. Suddenly she laughed out with an unfeigned enjoyment.