She scowled on me and informed
me that now that there had been the Revolution everything was different;
nevertheless the sight of my sick yellow face moved her as sickness and
misfortune always move every Russian, however old and debased he may be.
"You shouldn't have gone out walking," she said crossly. "That man's
been here again?" referring to the Rat, whom she hated.
"If it hadn't been for him," I said, "I would have died."
But she made the flat as cheerful as she could, lighting the stove,
putting some yellow flowers into a glass, dusting the Benois
water-colour, putting my favourite books beside my bed.
When Henry Bohun came in he was surprised at the brightness of
everything.
"Why, how cosy you are!" he cried.
"Ah, ha," I said, "I told you it wasn't so bad here."
He picked up my books, looked at Galleon's _Roads_ and then _Pride and
Prejudice_.
"It's the simplest things that last," he said. "Galleon's jolly good,
but he's not simple enough. _Tess_ is the thing, you know, and
_Tono-Bungay,_ and _The Nigger of the Narcissus_... I usen't to think
so. I've grown older, haven't I?"
He had.
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