Lowndes grinned at sight of Kreisler. He had finished his own lunch and was just going off. He had almost forgotten his idea in coming to the restaurant, that of seeing his German acquaintance. Swaying from side to side on his two superlatively elastic calves, he sat down opposite the good Otto, who leered back, blinking. He spoke German better than Kreisler any other language, so they used that, after a little flourish of English. “Well, what have you been doing? Working?” “No,” replied Kreisler. “I’m giving up painting and becoming a business man. My father has offered me a position!” This subject seemed no more important than his speech made it, and yet it filled his life. Lowndes smiled correctly, not suspecting realities. “Have you seen Douglas?” This was a friend through whom they had known each other in Italy. Why should this fellow lend him thirty francs? The grin would not be there, he felt, had he been conscious that the other was thinking of the contents of his pocket. Not humour, but a much colder stuff no doubt mounted guard over his pocket-book, guarantee of this easiness and health. Oh, the offensive prosperity of the English, smugness of middle-class affluence! etc. etc. Kreisler imagined the change that would come over this face when there was question of thirty francs. Estrangement set in on his side already, anger and humiliation at the imagined expression. This was of help. Here was his chance of borrowing that very insignificant but illusive sum. The man was already an enemy. He would willingly have knocked him on the head and taken his money had they been in a quiet place. The complacent health and humoristic phlegm with which he grinned and perambulated through life charged Kreisler with the contempt natural to his more stiff and human education. His relations with him hinging on mild racial differences, he saw behind him the long line of all the Englishmen he had ever known. “Useless swine,” he thought, “so pleased with his cursed English face, and mean as a peasant!” “Oh, I was asked for my opinion on a certain matter this morning. I was asked what I thought of German women!” “What reply did you make, Mr. Lowndes?” “I didn’t know what to say. I suggested that my friend should come along and get your opinion.” “My opinion as an _expert_? My fees as an expert are heavy. I charge thirty francs a consultation!” “I’m sure he’d have paid that,” Lowndes laughed innocently. Kreisler surveyed him unsympathetically. “What, then, is your opinion of our excellent females?” he asked. “Oh, I have no opinion. I admire your ladies, especially the pure Prussians.” Kreisler was thinking: “If I borrow the money, there must be some time mentioned for paying back—next week, say. He would be more likely to lend it if he knew where to find me. He must have my address.” “Come and see me—some time,” he blinked. “52 Boulevard Pfeiffer, fourth floor, just beside the restaurant here. You see? Up there.”