“Does that make much money?”
“No. But later on when you get known it does.”
“It is interesting.”
“No,” said Johnson, “it is not interesting. I am sorry gentlemen, but I have to leave you. Will you please drink the other bottle?”
“But the train does not come for three-quarters of an hour.”
“I know,” said Johnson. The waitress came and he paid for the wine and his dinner.
“You’re going out, sir?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Johnson, “just for a little walk. I’ll leave my bags here.”
He put on his muffler, his coat, and his hat. Outside the snow was falling heavily. He looked back through the window at the three porters sitting at the table. The waitress was filling their glasses from the last wine of the opened bottle. She took the unopened bottle back to the bar. That makes them three francs something apiece, Johnson thought. He turned and walked down the platform. Inside the café he had thought that talking about it would blunt it; but it had not blunted it; it had only made him feel nasty.
In the station café at Territet it was a little too warm; the lights were bright and the tables shiny from polishing. There were baskets with pretzels in glazed paper sacks on the tables and cardboard pads for beer glasses in order that the moist glasses would not make rings on the wood. The chairs were carved but the wooden seats were worn and quite comfortable. There was a clock on the wall, a bar at the far end of the room, and outside the window it was snowing. There was an old man drinking coffee at a table under the clock and reading the evening paper. A porter came in and said the Simplon-
