I
IT WAS ABOUT half-past five on an October afternoon
when Marya Zelli came out of the Cart Lavenue， which is a
dignified and comparatively expensive establishment on the
Boulevard du Montparnasse. She had been sitting there for
nearly an hour and a half， and during that time she had
drunk two glasses of black coffee， smoked six caporal
cigarettes and read the week s Candide.
Marya was a blonde girl， not very tall， slender-waisted.
Her face was short， high cheek-boned， full-lipped; her long
eyes slanted upwards towards the temples and were gentle
and oddly remote in expression. Often on the Boulevards
St Michel and Montparnasse shabby youths would glide up
to her and address her hopefully in unknown and spitting
tongues. When they were very shabby she would smile in a
distant manner and answer in English:
I m very sorry; I don t understand what you are saying.
She crossed the boulevard and turned down the Rue de
Rermes. As she walked along she was thinking: This street
is very like the Tottenham Court Road - own sister to the
Tottenham Court Road.
The idea depressed her， and to distract herself she stopped
to look at a red felt hat in a shop window. Someone behind
her said:
Hello， Madame Zelli， wlaat are you doing in this part of
the world ?
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