Duckie went on, and as she spoke her bluntness caused Victoria to visualise scene after scene, one more horrible than another: a tall dingy house in Bloomsbury with unlit staircases leading up to black landings suggestive of robbery and murder; bedrooms with blinded windows, reeking with patchouli, with carpets soiled by a myriad ignoble stains. The house Duckie pictured was like a warren in every corner of which soft-handed, rosy-lipped harpies sucked men's life-blood; there was drinking in it, and a piano played light airs; below in the ground floor, through the half open door, she could see two or three foreigners, unshaven, dirty-cuffed, playing cards in silence like hunters in ambush. She shuddered. 'Yes, but Fritz isn't so bad,' broke in Lissa. She had all this time been wrangling with Zoé. 'No good,' snapped Zoé, 'he's a . . . a _bouche inutile_.' Her pursed-up lips tightened. Fritz was swept away to limbo by her practical French philosophy. 'I like him because he is not useful' said Lissa dreamily. Zoé shrugged her shoulders. Poor fool, this Lissa. 'Who is this Fritz you're always talking about?' asked Victoria. 'He's a . . . you know what they call them,' said Duckie brutally. 'You're a liar,' screamed Lissa jumping up. 'He's . . . oh, Vic, you do not understand. He's the man I care for; he is so handsome, so clever, so gentle . . .' 'Very gentle,' sneered Zoé, 'why did you not take off your long gloves last week, _hein_? Perhaps you had blue marks?' Lissa looked about to cry. Victoria put her hand on her arm. 'Never mind them,' she said, 'tell me.' 'Oh, Vic, you are so good.' Lissa's face twitched, then she smiled like a child bribed with a sweet. 'They do not know; they are hard. It is true, Fritz does not work, but if we were married he would work and I would do nothing. What does it matter?' They all smiled at the theory, but Lissa went on with heightened colour. 'Oh, it is so good to forget all the others; they are so ugly, so stupid. It is infernal. And then, Fritz, the man that I love for himself . . .' 'And who loves you for . . .' began Zoé. 'Shut up, Zoé,' said Duckie, her kindly heart expanding before this idealism, 'leave the kid alone. Not in my line of course. You take my tip, all of you, you go on your own. Don't you get let in with a landlady and don't you get let in with a man. It's _them_ you've got to let in.' 'That's what I say,' remarked Zoé. 'We are successful because we take care. One must be economical. For instance, every month I can. . . .' She stopped and looked round suspiciously; with economy goes distrust, and Zoé was very French. 'Well, I can manage,' she concluded vaguely. 'And you need not talk, Duckie,' said Lissa savagely. 'You drink two quid's worth every week.'