day. I thought we might try it."
I nodded and tried to look pleased, and as we drove past the lighted windows of Harrods I summoned up my courage and said,
"What nationality?"
"What nationality what?" said Roger, trying to beat a car of his own make to the lights, and making it, thank goodness.
"What nationality
food?
" I said.
"I'm not sure," he said, "but they said it was quite clean. For foreigners."
He made this remark with an impassive countenance: I was quite unable to tell whether such remarks were straight or intended as jokes, or even intended as attacks upon my ridiculous notions of liberal equality. He was always making such ambiguous statements about subjects like black men, money, modern art and so forth: on the whole I think they were meant to provoke, but I never rose as I was always too amazed to react at all. Nobody else that I had ever known had made remarks like those: it was a continual surprise to me that he could make them and yet at the same time like me enough to pay for my dinners.
The restaurant turned out to be French, and rather flashy. The tables were too close together. Roger had mussels and some infinitely messed-about steak. I had
vegetable soup and grilled sole and mashed potatoes and even so I did not feel too good by the end of it. Then Roger started thinking about having crêpes suzette, and tried to persuade me to have some too, as they made it for two, but I simply could not face it. It was quite a novelty for me to feel so doubtful, as until then I had always had a cast-iron constitution, and on the rare occasions when I had suffered, I had suffered with good will. Roger would not let the topic of crêpes suzette drop but went on about them quite mercilessly, and I felt sudden retrospective insight into the plight of all those whom in the past I had sneered at for delicacy of health and appetite. In the end I said:
"It's no good, Roger, I just don't feel well," and he set about ordering crêpes for one. When he had dealt with the waiter he turned back to me and said, "What's the matter with you, then?"
"I'm pregnant," I said, hoping that the American lady at the next table was not at that moment listening to us, as she had been for most of our meal.
"I thought perhaps you might be," said Roger, and poured himself a little more claret.
"You what?" I said, in genuine astonishment.
"Well, I mean to say, and don't think I'm being rude, my dear, but you are beginning to look a little bit that way ... that dress, for instance."
"I did wonder," I said, "when I put it on. But it's the only one I've got that does for your horrid friends."
"Don't insult my friends," said Roger equably; "look at what your horrid friends have done, and to a nice girl like you too. That's what comes of mixing with all those nasty artists."
"It's not really very noticeable, is it?" I said anxiously.
"Oh no. I only noticed it myself this evening. And with your feeling off-colour too. Have a drink, I should think you need it."
"No," I said. "I do need it, but it makes me feel awful."
"Oh look," said Roger, "here they come with my crêpe mixture. Let's just sit quietly and watch the flames."
So we sat and watched the flames, and when Roger had with great satisfaction finished eating he turned his attention back to me, and said:
"Well, what are you going to do about it, if that's not too tiresome a question?"
"Nothing," I said.
"Nothing at all?"
"Nothing at all."
"You're going to let nature take its course?"
"That's right."
"Well, well," said Roger. "What a brave girl you are."
"It might be quite nice to have a baby," I said, thinking that if I said this to everybody for the next six months I might convince both myself and them.
"My dear girl," said Roger, "it's not quite as easy as all that, you know. It's quite a performance, having a baby. And then what do you do with it when you've got it?"
"Keep it," I said.
"What on? Is he going to support you? I don't suppose for a moment that he is,
I nodded and tried to look pleased, and as we drove past the lighted windows of Harrods I summoned up my courage and said,
"What nationality?"
"What nationality what?" said Roger, trying to beat a car of his own make to the lights, and making it, thank goodness.
"What nationality
food?
" I said.
"I'm not sure," he said, "but they said it was quite clean. For foreigners."
He made this remark with an impassive countenance: I was quite unable to tell whether such remarks were straight or intended as jokes, or even intended as attacks upon my ridiculous notions of liberal equality. He was always making such ambiguous statements about subjects like black men, money, modern art and so forth: on the whole I think they were meant to provoke, but I never rose as I was always too amazed to react at all. Nobody else that I had ever known had made remarks like those: it was a continual surprise to me that he could make them and yet at the same time like me enough to pay for my dinners.
The restaurant turned out to be French, and rather flashy. The tables were too close together. Roger had mussels and some infinitely messed-about steak. I had
vegetable soup and grilled sole and mashed potatoes and even so I did not feel too good by the end of it. Then Roger started thinking about having crêpes suzette, and tried to persuade me to have some too, as they made it for two, but I simply could not face it. It was quite a novelty for me to feel so doubtful, as until then I had always had a cast-iron constitution, and on the rare occasions when I had suffered, I had suffered with good will. Roger would not let the topic of crêpes suzette drop but went on about them quite mercilessly, and I felt sudden retrospective insight into the plight of all those whom in the past I had sneered at for delicacy of health and appetite. In the end I said:
"It's no good, Roger, I just don't feel well," and he set about ordering crêpes for one. When he had dealt with the waiter he turned back to me and said, "What's the matter with you, then?"
"I'm pregnant," I said, hoping that the American lady at the next table was not at that moment listening to us, as she had been for most of our meal.
"I thought perhaps you might be," said Roger, and poured himself a little more claret.
"You what?" I said, in genuine astonishment.
"Well, I mean to say, and don't think I'm being rude, my dear, but you are beginning to look a little bit that way ... that dress, for instance."
"I did wonder," I said, "when I put it on. But it's the only one I've got that does for your horrid friends."
"Don't insult my friends," said Roger equably; "look at what your horrid friends have done, and to a nice girl like you too. That's what comes of mixing with all those nasty artists."
"It's not really very noticeable, is it?" I said anxiously.
"Oh no. I only noticed it myself this evening. And with your feeling off-colour too. Have a drink, I should think you need it."
"No," I said. "I do need it, but it makes me feel awful."
"Oh look," said Roger, "here they come with my crêpe mixture. Let's just sit quietly and watch the flames."
So we sat and watched the flames, and when Roger had with great satisfaction finished eating he turned his attention back to me, and said:
"Well, what are you going to do about it, if that's not too tiresome a question?"
"Nothing," I said.
"Nothing at all?"
"Nothing at all."
"You're going to let nature take its course?"
"That's right."
"Well, well," said Roger. "What a brave girl you are."
"It might be quite nice to have a baby," I said, thinking that if I said this to everybody for the next six months I might convince both myself and them.
"My dear girl," said Roger, "it's not quite as easy as all that, you know. It's quite a performance, having a baby. And then what do you do with it when you've got it?"
"Keep it," I said.
"What on? Is he going to support you? I don't suppose for a moment that he is,
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