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- Уильям Сомерсет Моэм
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I
thought
it
as
well
to
put
one
more
question
.
"
Madame
est
la
?
"
"
Monsieur
est
seul
.
"
The
waiter
looked
at
me
suspiciously
as
I
made
my
way
upstairs
.
They
were
dark
and
airless
.
There
was
a
foul
and
musty
smell
.
Three
flights
up
a
Woman
in
a
dressing
-
gown
,
with
touzled
hair
,
opened
a
door
and
looked
at
me
silently
as
I
passed
.
At
length
I
reached
the
sixth
floor
,
and
knocked
at
the
door
numbered
thirty
-
two
.
There
was
a
sound
within
,
and
the
door
was
partly
opened
.
Charles
Strickland
stood
before
me
.
He
uttered
not
a
word
.
He
evidently
did
not
know
me
.
I
told
him
my
name
.
I
tried
my
best
to
assume
an
airy
manner
.
"
You
don
’
t
remember
me
.
I
had
the
pleasure
of
dining
with
you
last
July
.
"
"
Come
in
,
"
he
said
cheerily
.
"
I
’
m
delighted
to
see
you
.
Take
a
pew
.
"
I
entered
.
It
was
a
very
small
room
,
overcrowded
with
furniture
of
the
style
which
the
French
know
as
Louis
Philippe
.
There
was
a
large
wooden
bedstead
on
which
was
a
billowing
red
eiderdown
,
and
there
was
a
large
wardrobe
,
a
round
table
,
a
very
small
washstand
,
and
two
stuffed
chairs
covered
with
red
rep
.
Everything
was
dirty
and
shabby
.
There
was
no
sign
of
the
abandoned
luxury
that
Colonel
MacAndrew
had
so
confidently
described
.
Strickland
threw
on
the
floor
the
clothes
that
burdened
one
of
the
chairs
,
and
I
sat
down
on
it
.
"
What
can
I
do
for
you
?
"
he
asked
.
