“English women—what are they like?” Kreisler then asked with a grin. Their relations made this subject delightfully delicate and yet, Kreisler thought, very natural. This Englishman was evidently a description of pander, and no doubt he would be as inclined to be hospitable with his countrywomen in the abstract as with his late fiancée in material detail. “A friend of mine who had been there told me they were very ‘pretty’”—he pronounced the English word with mincing slowness and mischievous interrogation marks in his distorted face. “Your friend did not exaggerate. They are like languid nectarines! You would enjoy yourself there.” “But I can’t speak English—only a little. ‘I spik Ingleesh a leetle,’” he attempted with pleasure. “Very good! You’d get on splendidly!” Kreisler brushed his moustaches up, sticking his lips out in a hard gluttonous way. Tarr watched him with sympathetic curiosity. “But—my friend told me—they’re not—very easy? They are great flirts. So far—and then _bouf_! You are sent flying!” “You would not find anything to compare with the facilities of your own country. But you would not wish for that?” “No?—But, tell me, then, they are cold?—They are of a calculating nature?” “They are practical, I suppose, up to a certain point. But you must go and see.” Kreisler ruminated. “What do you find particularly attractive about Bertha?” Tarr asked in a discursive way. “I ask you as a German. I have often wondered what a German would think of her.” Kreisler looked at him with resentful uncertainty for a moment. “You want to know what I think of the Lunken?—She’s a sly prostitute, that’s what she is!” he announced loudly and challengingly. “Ah!” When he had given Tarr time for any possible demonstration, he thawed into his sociable self. He then added: “She’s not a bad girl! But she tricked you, my friend! She never cared _that_”—he snapped his fingers inexpertly—“for you! She told me so!” “Really? That’s interesting.—But I expect you’re only telling lies. All Germans do!” “All Germans _lie_?” “‘_Deutsches Volk_—the folk that deceives!’ is your philosopher Nietzsche’s account of the origin of the word Deutsch.” Kreisler sulked a moment till he had recovered. “No. We don’t lie! Why should we? We’re not _afraid of the truth_, so why should we?” “Perhaps, as a tribe, you lied to begin with, but have now given it up?” “What?” “That may be the explanation of Nietzsche’s etymology. Although he seemed very stimulated at the idea of your national certificate of untruthfulness. He felt that, as a true patriot, he should react against your blue eyes, beer, and childish frankness.” “_Quatsch!_ Nietzsche was always paradoxal. He would say anything to amuse himself. You English are the greatest liars and hypocrites on this earth!”