They got to their coffee more or less decorously. But Tarr had grown extremely loquacious and expansive in every way. He began slapping her thighs to emphasise his points, as Diderot was in the habit of doing with the Princesse de Clèves. After that he began kissing her, when he had made a particularly successful remark, to celebrate it. Their second bottle of wine had put many things to flight. He lay back in his chair in prolonged bursts of laughter. She, in German fashion, clapped her hand over his mouth, and he seized it with his teeth and made pale shell-shapes in its brown fat. In a café opposite the restaurant, where they next went, they had further drinks. They caressed each other’s hands now as a matter of course! Indifferent to the supercilious and bitter natives, they became lost in lengthy kisses, their arms round each other’s necks. In a little cave of intoxicated affection, a conversation took place. “Have you had dealings with many⸺?” “What’s that you say, dear?” she asked with eager, sleepy seriousness. The “dear” reminded him of accostings in the streets. “Have you been the mistress of many men?” “No, of course not. Only one. He was a Russian.” “What’s that got to do with it?” “What did you say?” “How much did he bag?” “Bag?” “What did the Russian represent?” “Nothing at all, Tarr. That’s why I took him. I wanted the experience. But now I want you! You are my first _person_!” Distant reminiscences of Bertha, grateful to him at present. Kisses succeeded. “I don’t want _you_!” Tarr said. “Oh! Tell me what you want?” “_I want a woman!_” “But I am a woman, stupid!” “I want a _slave_.” She whispered in his ear, hanging on his neck. “No! You may be a woman, but you’re not a slave.” “Don’t be so quarrelsome. Forget those silly words of yours—slave, woman. It’s all right when you’re talking about art, but you’re hugging a woman at present. This is something that can die! Ha ha! We’re in life, my Tarr. _We represent absolutely nothing_—thank God!” “I realize I’m in life, darling. But I don’t like being reminded of it in that way. It makes me feel as though I were in a _mauvais lieu_.” “Give me a kiss, you _efficient chimpanzee!_” Tarr scowled at her, but did not alter the half-embrace in which they sat. “You won’t give me a kiss? Silly old _in_efficient chimpanzee!” She sat back in her chair, and head down looked through her eyelashes at him with demure menace. “_Garçon! garçon!_” she called. “Mademoiselle?” the _garçon_ said, approaching slowly, with dignified scepticism. “This gentleman, _garçon_, wants to be a lion with fleas on his back—at least so he says! At the same time he wants a slave. I don’t know if he expects the slave to catch his fleas or not. I haven’t asked him. But he’s a funny-looking bird, isn’t he?” The _garçon_ withdrew with hauteur. “What’s the meaning of your latest tack, you little German art-tart?” “What am I?” “I called you German æsthetic pastry. I think that describes you.”