Behind the counter on which stood the absinthe
bottle was a tarnished mirror, and she saw him glance quickly, almost
guiltily into it, put up his hands and try to brush the dust from his
hair, his shoulders.
"Let me do it," she said abruptly. "Turn round."
He obeyed without a word, turning his back to her. With her two hands,
which were covered with soft, loose suede gloves, she beat and brushed
the dust from his coat. He stood quite still while she did it. When she
had finished she said:
"There, that's better."
Her voice was practical. He did not move, but stood there.
"I've done what I can, Monsieur Androvsky."
Then he turned slowly, and she saw, with amazement, that there were
tears in his eyes. He did not thank her or say a word.
A small and scrubby-looking Frenchman, with red eyelids and moustaches
that drooped over a pendulous underlip, now begged Madame to follow
him through a small doorway beyond which could be seen three just shot
gazelles lying in a patch of sunlight by a wired-in fowl-run. Domini
went after him, and Androvsky and honest Mustapha--still vigorously
proclaiming his own virtues--brought up the rear.
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