XXII
I did not see Strickland for several weeks. I was disgusted with himand if I had had an opportunity should
have been glad to tell him sobut I saw no object in seeking him out for the purpose. I am a little shy of any
assumption of moral indignation; there is always in it an element of self-satisfaction which makes it awkward
to anyone who has a sense of humour. It requires a very lively passion to steel me to my own ridicule. There
was a sardonic sincerity in Strickland which made me sensitive to anything that might suggest a pose.
But one evening when I was passing along the Avenue de Clichy in front of the cafe which Strickland
frequented and which I now avoidedI ran straight into him. He was accompanied by Blanche Stroeveand
they were just going to Strickland's favourite corner.
Where the devil have you been all this time?
said he. "I thought you must be away."
His cordiality was proof that he knew I had no wish to speak to him. He was not a man with whom it was
worth while wasting politeness.
No I said; I haven't been away.
Why haven't you been here?
There are more cafes in Paris than oneat which to trifle away an idle hour.
Blanche then held out her hand and bade me good-evening. I do not know why I had expected her to be
somehow chyilai：
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