"Can one get a passport easily for Paris?... I mean, supposing the
air-raids grew too dangerous again."

"Why not, madame? If one has one's papers. To get a passport from
Paris to London, that would be another thing, I admit.... I see that
you play," the Russian added, rising, with a gesture towards the
piano. "I have heard you play. You play with true taste. I know, for
when a girl I played much."

"You flatter me."

"Not at all. I think your friend plays too."

"Ah!" said Christine. "He!... It is an artist, that one."

They turned over the music, exchanged views about waltzes, became
enthusiastic, laughed, and parted amid manifestations of good breeding
and goodwill. As soon as Christine was alone, she sat down and wept.
She could not longer contain her distress. Paris gleamed before her.
But no! It was a false gleam. She could not make a new start in Paris
during the war. The adventure would be too perilous; the adventure
might end in a licensed house. And yet in London--what was there
in London but, ultimately, the pavement? And the pavement meant
complications with the police, with prowlers, with other women;
it meant all the scourges of the profession, including probably
alcoholism. It meant prostitution, to which she had never sunk!

She wished she had been killed outright in the air-raid. She had an
idea of going to the Oratory the next morning, and perhaps choosing
a new Virgin and soliciting favour of the image thereof. She sobbed,