 II. Two MPs passed outside the window. Andrews watched the yellow pig-skin revolver cases until they were out of sight. He felt joyfully secure from them. The waiter, standing by the door with a napkin on his arm, gave him a sense of security so intense it made him laugh. On the marble yellow table before him were a small glass of beer, a notebook full of ruled sheets of paper, and a couple of yellow pencils. The beer, the colour of topaz and the clear grey light that streamed in through the window, threw a pale yellow glow with a bright centre on the table. Outside was the boulevard with a few people walking hurriedly. An empty market wagon passed now and then, rumbling loud. On a bench a woman in a black knitted shawl with a bundle of newspapers on her knees was counting Sue with loving concentration. Andrews looked at his watch. He had an hour before going to the Scola Cantorum. He got to his feet, paid the waiter, and strolled down the centre of the boulevard, thinking smilingly of pages he had written, of pages he was going to write, filled with a sense of leisurely well-being. It was a grey morning with a little yellowish fog in the air. The pavements were damp, reflected women's dresses and men's legs, and the angular outlines of taxicabs. From a flower stand with violets and red and pink carnations, irregular blotches of colour ran down the brownish grey of the pavement. Andrews caught a faint smell of violets in the smell of the fog as he passed the flower stand, and remembered suddenly that spring was coming. He would not miss a moment of this spring, he told himself. He would follow it step by step from the first violets. Oh how fully he must live now to make up for all the years he had wasted in his life! He kept on walking along the boulevard. He was remembering how he and the girl the soldier had called Jean had both kindled with uncontrollable laughter when their eyes had met that night in the restaurant. He wished he could go down the boulevard with a girl like that, laughing through the foggy morning. He wondered vaguely what part of Paris he was getting to, but he was too happy to care. How beautifully long the hours were in the early morning. At a concert at the Sal Gavaud, the day before, he had heard Debussy's Nocturne and Lacey Rennes. Rhythms from them were the warp of all his thoughts. Against the background of the grey street and the brownish fog that hung a veil at the end of every vista, he began to imagine rhythms of his own, modulations and phrases that grew brilliant and faded, that flapped for a while like gaudy banners above his head through the clatter of the street. He noticed that he was passing a long building with blank rows of windows, at the central door of which stood groups of American soldiers smoking. Unconsciously he hastened his steps, for fear of meeting an officer he would have to salute. He passed the men without looking at them. A voice detained him. Say, Andrews! When he turned he saw that a short man with curly hair, whose face, though familiar, he could not place, had left the group at the door and was coming towards him. Hello, Andrews! Your name's Andrews, ain't it? Yes, Andrews shook his hand, trying to remember. I'm Fuseli! Remember? The last time I saw you, I was going up to the lines on a train with Chris Field. Chris, we used to call him, had closed. Don't you remember? Of course I do. Well, what's happened to Chris? He's a corporal now, said Andrews. Gee, he is? Ha, be goddamned! There's going to make me a corporal once. Fuseli wore stained olive drab breeches and badly rolled patees. His shirt was open at the neck. From his blue denim jacket came a smell of stale grease that Andrews recognized, the smell of army kitchens. He had a momentary recollection of standing in line cold dark mornings and of the sound of food made slopping into mess-kits. What did they make you a corporal, Fuseli? Andrews said, after a pause, in a constrained voice. Hell, I got in wrong, I suppose. They were leaning against the dusty house wall. Andrews looked at his feet. The mud of the pavement, splashing up on the wall, made an even dado along the bottom on which Andrews scraped the toe of his shoe up and down. Well, how's everything, Andrews said, looking up suddenly. I've been in a labor battalion. That's how everything is. Oh, god, that's tough luck. Andrews wanted to go on. He had a sudden fear that he would be late, but he did not know how to break away. I got sick, said Fuseli, grinning. I guess I am yet, G.O. 42. It's a hell of a note the way they treat a feller, like he was lower than the dirt. Were you at Cozne all the time? That's damned rough luck, Fuseli. Cozne sure is a hell of a hole. I guess you saw a lot of fighting. God, you must have been glad not to be in the goddamn medics. I don't know that I'm glad I saw fighting. Oh, yes, I suppose I am. You see, I had it a hell of a time before they found out. Court-martial was damn stiff, after the armistice, too. Oh, god, why can't they let a feller go home? A woman in a bright blue hat passed them. Andrews caught a glimpse of a white over-powdered face. Her hips trembled like jelly under the blue skirt, with each hard clack of her high heels on the pavement. Gee, that looks like Jenny. I'm glad she didn't see me, Fuseli laughed, ought to have seen her one night last week. We were so dead drunk we just couldn't move. Isn't that bad for what's the matter with you? I should give a damn now. What's the use? But god, man! Andrews stopped himself suddenly. Then he said in a different voice, What outfit are you in now? I'm on the permanent KP here. Fuseli jerked his thumb towards the door of the building. Not a bad job. Off two days a week. No drill. Good eats. At least you get all you want. But it surely has been hell emptying ash cans and shoveling coal. And now all they've done is dry me up. But you'll be going home soon now, won't you? They can't discharge you till they cure you. Damn, if I know, some guys say a guy never can be cured. Don't you find KP work pretty damn dull? Not no worse than anything else. What are you doing in Paris? School detachment. What's that? Men who wanted to study in the university. Who managed to work it. Gee, I'm glad I ain't going to school again. Well, so long Fuseli. So long Andrews. Fuseli turned and slouched back to the group of men at the door. Andrews hurried away. As he turned the corner he had a glimpse of Fuseli with his hands in his pockets and his legs crossed, leaning against the wall behind the door of the barracks. Three. The darkness where the rain fell through the vague halos of light around the street lamps glittered with streaks of pale gold. Andrews's ears were full of the sound of racing gutters and spattering water spouts and of the hard unceasing beat of the rain on the pavements. It was after closing time. The corrugated shutters were drawn down in front of cafe windows. Andrews's cap was wet. Water trickled down his forehead and the sides of his nose running into his eyes. His feet were soaked and he could feel the wet patches growing on his knees where they received the water running off his overcoat. The street stretched wide and dark ahead of him with an occasional glimmer of greenish reflection from a lamp. As he walked, splashing with long strides through the rain, he noticed that he was keeping pace with the woman under an umbrella, a slender person who was hurrying with small, resolute steps up the boulevard. When he saw her, a mad hope flamed suddenly through him. He remembered a vulgar little theater in the crude light of a spotlight. Through the paint and powder, a girl's golden brown skin had shone with a firm brilliance that made him think of the wide, sunscorched uplands and dancing figures on Greek foses. Since he had seen her two nights ago, he had thought of nothing else. He had feverishly found out her name. Naya Selikov, a mad hope flared through him that this girl he was walking beside, was the girl whose slender limbs moved in an endless freeze through his thoughts. He peered at her with eyes blurred with rain. What an ass he was. Of course it couldn't be. It was too early. She was on stage at this minute. Other hungry eyes were staring at her slenderness. Other hands were twitching to stroke her golden brown skin. Walking under the steady downpour that stung his face and ears and sent a tiny cold trickle down his back, he felt a sudden dizziness of desire come over him. His hands thrust to the bottom of his coat pockets, clutched convulsively. He felt that he would die, that his pounding blood vessels would burst. The bead curtains of rain rustled and tinkled about him, awakening his nerves, making his skin flash and tingle. In the gurgle of water in the gutters and waterspouts, you could imagine he heard orchestras droning libidness music. The feverish excitement of his senses began to create frenzied rhythms in his ears. "'O supple for Pwalu! Kyodwai trmui,' said a small, tremulous voice beside him. He turned. The girl was offering him part of her umbrella. "'O, say an American,' she said again, still speaking as if to herself. "'Mesane vpalipane. May we, may we!' He stepped under the umbrella beside her. But you must let me hold it. Bien!' As he took the umbrella he caught her eye. He stopped still in his tracks. "'But you're the girl at the rack, he don'ts. And you were at the next table with the man who sang. How amusing!' "'I salui la! Oh, il est de rigolo!' She burst out laughing. Her head, encased in a little round black hat, bobbed up and down under the umbrella. Andrews laughed, too. Crossing the boulevard Saint-Germain, a taxi nearly ran them down and splashed a great wave of mud over them. She clutched his arm and then stood roaring with laughter. "'Oh, quel horreur! quel horreur!' she kept exclaiming. Andrews laughed and laughed. "'But hold the umbrella over us. You're letting the rain in on my best hat,' she said again. "'Your name is Jean,' said Andrews. Impurtenant! You heard my brother call me that!' He went back to the front last night, poor little chap. He's only nineteen. He's very clever. Oh, how happy I am that the war's over! "'You're older than he?' "'Two years. I am the head of the family. It is a dignified position. Have you always lived in Paris?' "'No, we are from Long. It's the war.' "'Refugees? "'Don't call us that. We work,' Andrews laughed. "'Are you going far?' she asked, peering in his face. "'No, I live up here. My name is the same as yours.' "'Jean, how funny! Where are you going? Rue Descartes, behind Saint-Etienne. I live near you. "'But you mustn't come. The concierge is a tigress. Etienne calls her madame Clémenceau.' "'Who, the saint?' "'No, you silly. My brother. He's a socialist. He's a typesetter at New Maniquet.' "'Really? I often read New Maniquet.' "'Poor boy, he used to swear he'd never go in the army. He thought of going to America.' "'That wouldn't do him any good now,' said Andrews bitterly. "'What do you do?' "'I,' a gruff bitterness came into her voice. "'Why should I tell you? I work at address makers.' "'Like Louise?' "'You've heard Louise? Oh, how I cried. Why did it make you sad? Oh, I don't know. But I'm learning stenography. But here we are. The great bulk of the Pantheon stood up dimly through the rain beside them. In front, the Tower of Saint Etienne du Mont was still visible. The rain roared about them. "'Oh, how wet I am,' said Jan. "'Look, they're giving Louise day after tomorrow at the Opera Comique. Won't you come with me?' "'No, I should cry too much.' "'I'll cry, too. "'But it's not,' said Larmy Steece, interrupted Andrews. They both laughed. "'All right. Meet me at the cafe at the end of the Boumiche at quarter past seven. But you probably won't come. "'I swear I will,' cried Andrews eagerly. "'We'll see.' She darted away down the street beside Saint Etienne du Mont. Andrews was left alone amid the seethe of the rain and the tumultuous gurgle of waterspouts. He felt calm and tired. When he got to his room, he found he had no matches in his pocket. No light came from the window through which he could hear the hissing clamour of the rain in the court. He stumbled over a chair. "'Are you drunk?' came Walter's voice, swathed in bedclothes. "'There are matches on the table. But where the hell's the table?' It last his hand, groping over the table, closed on the matchbox. The matches red and white flickered dazzled him. He blinked his eyes. The lashes were still full of raindrops. When he had lit a candle and set it amongst the music papers upon the table, he tore off his dripping clothes. "'I just met the most charming girl, Walter's.' Andrews stood naked beside the pile of his clothes, rubbing himself with a towel. "'Gee, I was wet. But she was the most charming person I've met since I've been in Paris. I thought you said you let the girls alone. "'Horrors,' I must have said. "'Well, any girl you could pick up on the street. Nonsense!' "'I guess they're all that way in this damned country. God, it will do me good to see a nice, sweet, wholesome American girl.' Andrews did not answer. He blew out the light and got into bed. "'But I've got a new job,' Walter's went on. "'I'm working in the school detachment office.' "'Why the hell do that? You came here to take courses in the Sorbonne, didn't you?' "'Sure, I go to most of them now. But in this army I like to be in the middle of things, see? Just so they can't put anything over on me.' "'There's something in that.' "'There's a damn lot in it, boy. The only way is to keep in right and not let the man hire up, forget you. Why, we may start fighting again. These damned Germans ain't showin' the right spirit at all. After all the presence done for them, I expect to get my sergeancy out of it anyway.' "'Well, I'm going to sleep,' said Andrews, sulkily. John Andrews sat at a table outside the café d'Orhan. The sun had just set on a ruddy afternoon, flooding everything with violet blue light and cold greenish shadow. The sky was bright lilac color, streaked with a few amber clouds. The lights were on in all the windows of the magazine Doulou, opposite, so that the windows seemed bits of polished glass in the afterglow. In the colonnade of the Palais Royale, the shadows were deepening and growing colder. A steady stream of people poured in and out of the metro. Green buses stuffed with people kept passing. The roar of the traffic and the clatter of footsteps, and the grumble of voices, swirled like dance music about Andrews' head. He noticed all at once that the rabbit man stood in front of him, a rabbit dangling forgotten at the end of its rubber tube. "'E ça va bien, les commers?' said Andrews. "'Quietly, quietly,' said the rabbit man, distractively making the rabbit turn a somersault at his feet. Andrews watched the people going into the metro. The gentleman amuses himself in Paris, asked the rabbit man timidly. "'Oh, yes, and you?' "'Quietly,' the rabbit man smiled. "'Women are very beautiful at this hour of the evening,' he said again in his very timid tone. "'There is nothing more beautiful than this moment of the evening in Paris. Or Parisian women,' the eyes of the rabbit man glittered. "'Excuse me, sir,' he went on. "'I must try and sell some rabbits.' "'Avois,' said Andrews, holding out his hand. The rabbit man shook it with sudden vigor and went off, making a rabbit hop before him along the curb-stone. He was hidden by the swiftly moving crowds. In the square, flaring violet arc lights were flickering on, lighting up their net-covered globes that hung like harsh moons above the pavement. Henslow sat down on the chair beside Andrews. "'How's sin bad?' "'Sin bad, old boy, is functioning. Aren't you frozen?' "'How do you mean, Henslow?' "'Overheated, you chump, sitting out here in polar weather. "'No, but I mean—' "'How are you functioning?' said Andrews, laughing. "'I'm going to Poland tomorrow.' "'How?' "'As a guard on a Red Cross supply train. "'I think you might make it if you want to come, "'if we beat it right over to the Red Cross before Major Smithers goes, "'or we might take him out to dinner. "'But, Henny, I'm staying.' "'Why the hell staying in this hole?' "'I like it. "'I'm getting a better course in orchestration than I imagined existed, "'and I met a girl the other day, and I'm crazy over Paris. "'If you go and get entangled, I swear I'll beat your head "'into the Polish chilele.' "'Of course you've met a girl. "'So have I. Lots. "'We can meet some more in Poland and dance polonais with them.' "'No, but this girl's charming. "'You've seen her. "'She was the girl who was with the Poilu at the Rocky Danse "'the first night I was in Paris. "'We went to Louise together. "'Must have been a grand sentimental party.' "'I swear. "'I may run after Jane now and again, "'but I never let them interfere with the business of existence.' "'Muttered, hence low crossly. "'They were both silent. "'You'll be as bad as Heinz with his Mokie "'in the lion cub named Boo Boo. "'By the way, it's dead. "'Well, where shall we have dinner?' "'I'm dining with Jane. "'I'm going to meet her in half an hour. "'I'm awfully sorry, Henny. "'We might all dine together.' "'A fat chance. "'No, I'll have to go and find that ass Aubrey "'and hear all about the peace conference. "'Hainz can't leave Mokie because she's having hysterics "'on account of a Boo Boo. "'I'll probably be driven to going to see Barrett in the end. "'You're a nice one. "'We'll have a grand seeing-off party for you tomorrow, "'Henny. "'Look, I forgot. "'You're to meet Aubrey at the Crayon at five tomorrow, "'and he's going to take you to see Jean-Fierve Roe. "'Who the hell's Jean-Fierve Roe?' "'Darned if I know. "'But Aubrey said you'd got to come. "'She is an intellectual,' so Aubrey says. "'Oh, that's the last thing I want to meet. "'Well, you can't help yourself. "'So long.' "'Andrew sat a while more at the table outside the cafe. "'A cold wind was blowing. "'The sky was blue-black and the ash and white arc lamps "'cast a mortuary light over everything. "'In the colonnade of the Palais Royal, "'the shadows were harsh and inky. "'In the square, the people were gradually thinning. "'The lights in the magazine du Louvre had gone out. "'From the cafe behind him, "'a faint smell of fresh-cooked food "'began to saturate the cold air of the street. "'Then he saw Jean advancing across the ash-gray pavement "'of the square, slim and black under the arc lights. "'He ran to meet her. "'The cylindrical stove in the middle of the floor roared softly. "'In front of it, the white cat was rolled into a fluffy ball, "'in which ears and nose made tiny splashes of pink, "'like those at the tips of the petals of certain white roses. "'One side of the stove at the table against the window "'sat an old brown man with a bright red stain on each cheekbone, "'who wore formless corduroy clothes, the color of his skin. "'Holding the small spoon in a knotted hand, "'he was stirring slowly and continuously, "'a liquid that was yellow and steamed in a glass. "'Behind him was the window with sleet beating against it "'in the leaden light of a wintry afternoon. "'The other side of the stove was a zinc bar "'with yellow bottles and green bottles "'and a water spigot with a neck like a giraffe's "'that rose out of the bar beside a varnished wood pillar "'that made the decoration of the corner "'with a terracotta pot of ferns on top of it. "'From where Andrews sat on the padded bench "'at the back of the room, "'the fern fronds made a black lacework "'against the left-hand side of the window, "'while against the other was the brown silhouette "'of the old man's head and the slant of his cap. "'The stove hid the door and the white cat, "'round in symmetrical, "'formed the center of the visible universe. "'On the marble table beside Andrews "'were some pieces of crisp bread with butter on them, "'a saucer of damson jam, "'and a bowl with coffee and hot milk "'from which the steam rose in a faint spiral. "'His tunic was unbuttoned "'and he rested his head on his two hands, "'staring through his fingers at a thick pile of ruled paper, "'full of hastily drawn scimes, "'some in ink and some in pencil, "'where now and then he made a mark with a pencil. "'At the other edge of the pile of papers were two books, "'one yellow and one white with coffee stains on it. "'The fire roared and the cat slept "'and the old brown man stirred and stirred, "'rarely stopping for a moment "'to lift the glass to his lips. "'Occasionally the scratching of sleet upon the windows "'became audible, "'or there was a distant sound of dishpans "'through the door in the back. "'The sallow-faced clock that hung above the mirror "'that backed the bar "'jurked out one jingly strike, a half hour. "'Anders did not look up. "'The cat still slept in front of the stove, "'which roared with a gentle singsong. "'The old man still stirred the yellow liquid "'in his glass. "'The clock was ticking uphill against the hour. "'Anders' hands were cold. "'There was a nervous flutter in his wrists and in his chest. "'Inside of him was a great rift of light, "'infinitely vast and infinitely distant. "'Through it sounds poured from somewhere "'so that he trembled with them to his fingertips. "'Sounds modulated into rhythms "'that washed back and forth "'and crossed each other like sea waves in a cove. "'Sounds clotted into harmonies. "'Behind everything, the Queen of Sheba, out of Flaubert, "'held her fantastic hand with its long, "'gilded fingernails on his shoulder. "'And he was leaning forward over the brink of life. "'But the image was vague, "'like a shadow cast on the brilliance of his mind. "'The clock struck four. "'The white, fluffy ball of the cat unrolled very slowly. "'Its eyes were very round and yellow. "'It put first one leg and then the other "'out before it on the tiled floor, "'spreading wide the pinky-grey claws. "'Its tail rose up behind it, straight as the mast of a ship. "'With slow, processional steps, "'the cat walked towards the door. "'The old man drank down the yellow liquid "'and smacked his lips twice, loudly, meditatively. "'Andrews raised his head, "'his blue eyes looking straight before him "'without seeing anything. "'Dropping the pencil, he leaned back against the wall "'and stretched his arms out. "'Taking the coffee-bowl between his two hands, "'he drank a little. "'It was cold. "'He piled some jam on a piece of bread and ate it, "'licking a little off his fingers afterwards. "'Then he looked towards the old brown man and said, "'On a biennys sea, nespas, Mr. Mourouk. "'We, on a biennys sea,' said the old man, "'in a voice so gruff it seemed to rattle. "'Very slowly he got to his feet. "'Good, I'm going to the barge,' he said. "'Then he called, "'She pat? "'We, Monsieur!' "'A little girl in a black apron with her hair "'and two tight pigtails, "'that stood out behind her tiny bullet head as she ran, "'came through the door from the back part of the house. "'There, give that to your mother,' said the old brown man, "'putting some coppers in her hand. "'We, Monsieur, you'd better stay where it's warm,' said Andrews, yawning. "'I have to work. "'It's only soldiers don't have to work,' rattled the old brown man. "'When the door opened, "'A gust of raw air circled about the wine shop, "'and a roar of wind and hiss of sleet "'came from the slush-covered K outside. "'The cat took refuge beside the stove "'with its back up and its tail waving. "'The door closed and the old brown man's silhouette, "'slanted against the wind, "'crossed the gray oblong of the window. "'Andrews settled down to work again. "'But you work a lot, don't you, Monsieur Jean?' "'said she pet, putting her chin on the table beside the books "'and looking up into his eyes with little eyes like black beads. "'I wonder if I do.' "'When I'm grown up, I shan't work a bit. "'I'll drive round in a carriage.' Andrews laughed. "'She pet looked at him for a minute, "'and then went into the other room, "'carrying away the empty coffee-bowl.' "'In front of the stove, "'the cat sat on its haunches, "'licking a paw rhythmically with a pink-curling tongue "'like a rose-pedal. "'Andrews whistled a few bars, staring at the cat. "'What do you think of that, Minet? "'That's Lorraine de Saba. "'Lorraine de Saba.' "'The cat curled into a ball again "'with great deliberation and went to sleep. "'Andrews began thinking of Jean "'and the thought gave him a sense of quiet well-being. "'Strolling with her in the evening "'through the streets full of men and women "'walking significantly together "'sent a languid calm through his jangling nerves, "'which he had never known in his life before. "'He'd excited him to be with her, but very suavely, "'so that he forgot that his limbs "'were swathed stiffly in an uncomfortable uniform, "'so that his feverish desire seemed to fly out of him "'until with her body beside him. "'He seemed to drift effortlessly "'in the stream of the lives of all the people he passed, "'so languid from the quiet loves that streamed up about him "'that the hard walls of his personality "'seem to have melted entirely "'into a mistiness of twilight streets. "'And for a moment, as he thought of it, "'a scent of flowers heavy with pollen "'and sprouting grass and damp moss "'and swelling sap seemed to tingle in his nostrils. "'Sometimes, swimming in the ocean on a rough day, "'he had felt the same reckless exhilaration "'when, towards the shore, a huge, seething wave "'had caught him up and sped him forward on its crest. "'Sitting quietly in the empty wine-shop "'that gray afternoon, he felt his blood grumble "'and swell in his veins, "'as the new life was grumbling and swelling "'in the sticky buds of the trees, "'in the tender green quick under their rough bark, "'in the little furry animals of the woods "'and in the sweet-smelling cattle "'that tramped into mud the lush meadows. "'In the premonition of spring was a restless wave of force "'that carried him and all of them with it tumultuously. "'The clock struck five. "'Andrus jumped to his feet "'and still struggling into his overcoat, "'darted out of the door. "'A raw wind blew on the square. "'The river was a muddy gray-green, swollen and rapid. "'A hoarse triumphant roaring came from it. "'The sleet had stopped, "'but the pavements were covered with slush "'and in the gutters were large puddles "'which the wind ruffled. "'Everything, houses, bridges, river and sky "'was in shades of cold gray-green, "'broken by one jagged ochre-colored rift across the sky, "'against which the bulk of Notre Dame "'and the slender spire of the crossing "'rose dark and purplish. "'Andrus walked with long strides, "'splashing through the puddles, "'until opposite the low building of the morgue. "'He caught a crowded green bus. "'Outside the Hotel Crayon "'were many limousines painted all of drab "'with numbers in white letters on the doors. "'The drivers, men with their olive drab coat collars, "'turned up round their red faces, "'stood in groups under the portico. "'Andrus passed the sentry "'and went through the revolving doors into the lobby, "'which was vividly familiar. "'It had the smell he remembered having smelt "'in the lobbies of New York hotels, "'a smell of cigar smoke and furniture polish. "'On one side, a door led to a big dining room "'where many men and women were having tea, "'from which came the smell of pastry and rich food. "'On the expanse of red carpet in front of him, "'officers and civilians stood in groups "'talking in low voices. "'There was a sound of jingling spurs "'and jangling dishes from the restaurant, "'and near where Andrews stood "'shifting his weight from one foot to the other, "'sprawled in a leather chair, "'a fat man with a black-felled hat over his eyes "'and a large watch chain dangling limply "'over his bulbous punch. "'He cleared his throat occasionally with a rasping noise "'and spat loudly into the spittoon beside him. "'At last Andrews caught sight of Aubrey, "'who was dapper with white cheeks "'and tortoise-shell glasses. "'Come along,' he said, seizing Andrews by the arm. "'You're late.' "'Then he went on whispering in Andrews' ear "'as they went out through the revolving doors. "'Great things happened in the conference today. "'I can tell you that, old man.' "'They crossed the bridge towards the portico "'of the Chamber of Deputies with its high pediment "'and its gray columns. "'Down the river they could see faintly the Eiffel Tower "'with a drift of mist adhwarted, "'like a section of spiderwebs "'bund between the city and the clouds.' "'Do we have to go see these people, Aubrey?' "'Yes, you can't back out now. "'Junvie of Roe wants to talk about American music. "'But what on earth can I tell her about American music? "'Wasn't there a man named McDowell "'who went mad or something?' Andrews laughed. "'But you know I haven't had any social graces. "'I suppose I'll have to say I think folk "'is a little tin god. "'You needn't say anything if you don't want to. "'They're very advanced, anyway.' "'Oh, rats. "'They were going up a brown carpeted stair "'that had engravings on the landings, "'where there was a faint smell of stale food and dustpans. "'At the top landing, Aubrey rang the bell "'at a varnished door. "'In a moment a girl opened it. "'She had a cigarette in her hand. "'Her face was pale under a mass of reddish chestnut hair. "'Her eyes very large, a pale brown, "'as large as the eyes of women "'in those paintings of Artemisius "'and baroniches found in tombs in the faume. "'She wore a plain black dress. "'Enfants,' she said, and held out her hand to Aubrey. "'There's my friend Andrews.' "'She held out her hand to him absently, "'still looking at Aubrey. "'Does he speak French? "'Good. "'This way. "'They went into a large room with a piano, "'where an elderly woman, with gray hair and yellow teeth, "'and the same large eyes as her daughter, "'stood before the fireplace. "'Maman, en fin est-il y, c'est monsieur? "'Jean-viève was afraid you weren't coming. "'Madame Roe said to Andrews, smiling. "'Monsieur Aubrey gave us such a picture of your playing "'that we have been excited all day. "'We adore music. "'I wish I could do something more to the point "'with it than adore it.' "'So Jean-viève Roe hastily, "'then she went on with the laugh. "'But I forget. "'Monsieur Andrefs? "'Monsieur Rangsard?' "'She made a gesture with her hand from Andrews "'to a young Frenchman in a cutaway coat, "'with small moustaches and a very tight vest "'who bowed towards Andrews.' "'Now we'll have tea,' said Jean-viève Roe. "'Everybody talks sense until they've had tea. "'It's only after tea that anyone is ever amusing.' "'She pulled open some curtains "'that covered the door into their joining room.' "'I understand why Sarah Bernhardt "'is so fond of curtains,' she said. "'They give an air of drama to existence. "'There is nothing more heroic than curtains.' "'She sat at the head of an oak table "'where were china platters with very colored pastries, "'an old pewter kettle under which an alcohol lamp burned, "'a dresden china teapot in pale yellows and greens, "'and cups and saucers and plates "'with a double-headed eagle design in dull vermilion.' "'To Sarah,' said Jean-viève, "'waving her hand across the table, "'say Bosch, but we haven't any others, "'so they'll have to do.' "'The older woman, who sat beside her, "'whispered something in her ear and laughed. "'Jean-viève put on a pair of tortoise shell spectacles "'and started pouring out tea.' "'Did you see one strength out of that cup?' "'It's cracked,' she said, "'handing a cup to John Andrews. "'Do you know anything of Mazorskis "'you can play to us after tea?' "'I can't play anything anymore. "'Ask me three months from now.' "'Oh, yes, but nobody expects you to do any tricks with it. "'You can certainly make it intelligible. "'That's all I want.' "'I have my doubts.' "'Andrews zipped his tea slowly, "'looking now and then at Jean-viève Roe, "'who had suddenly begun talking very fast to Ransard. "'She held a cigarette between the fingers "'of a long, thin hand. "'Her large, pale-brown eyes "'kept their startled look of having just opened "'on the world. "'A little smile appeared and disappeared maliciously "'in the curve of her cheek away from her small, firm lips. "'The older woman beside her kept looking round the table "'with a jolly air of hospitality "'and showing her yellow teeth and a smile. "'Afterwards they went back to the sitting room "'and Andrews sat down at the piano. "'The girl sat very straight on a little chair "'beside the piano. "'Andrews ran his fingers up and down the keys. "'Did you say you knew Debussy?' he said. "'I? No. "'But he used to come to see my father when I was a little girl. "'I have been brought up in the middle of music. "'That shows how silly it is to be a woman. "'There's no music in my head. "'Of course I am sensitive to it, "'but so are the tables and chairs "'in this apartment after all they've heard.' "'Andrews started playing Schumann. "'He stopped suddenly.' "'Can you sing?' he said. "'No.' "'I'd like to do the pros lyrique. "'I've never heard them. "'I once tried to sing Le soire,' she said. "'Wonderful. "'Do bring it out. "'But, good Lord, it's too difficult.' "'What is the use of being fond of music "'if you aren't willing to mangle it "'for the sake of producing it? "'I swear I'd rather hear a man picking out "'Opré de m'blonde on a trombone "'than Chrysler playing Paganini impeccably enough "'to make you ill. "'But there is a middle ground.' "'He interrupted her by starting to play again. "'As he played without looking at her, "'he felt that her eyes were fixed on him, "'that she was standing tensely behind him. "'Her hand touched his shoulder. "'He stopped playing.' "'Oh, I am dreadfully sorry,' she said. "'Nothing. I am finished.' "'You were playing something of your own.' "'Have you ever read Le Tondation de Saint-Antoine?' "'He asked in a low voice. "'Flo Bears?' "'Yes. "'It's not his best work. "'A very interesting failure, though,' she said. "'Andrews got up from the piano with difficulty, "'controlling a sudden growing irritation.' "'They seemed to teach everybody to say that,' muttered. "'Suddenly he realized that other people were in the room. "'He went up to Madame Crow.' "'You must excuse me,' he said. "'I have an engagement. "'Aubrey, don't let me drag you away. "'I am late. I've got to run. "'You must come see us again.' "'Thank you,' mumbled Andrews. "'J'enviève Roe went with him to the door. "'We must know each other better,' she said. "'I like you for growing off in a huff.' Andrews flushed. "'I was badly brought up,' he said, pressing her thin, cold hand. "'And you French must always remember "'that we are barbarians. "'Some are repented barbarians. "'I am not.' She laughed, and John Andrews ran down the stairs and out into the grey-blue streets, where the lamps were blooming into primrose color. He had a confused feeling that he had made a fool of himself, which made him rive with helpless anger. He walked with long strides through the streets of the Reeve Gauche, full of people going home from work, towards the little wine-shop on the Cay de la Tunel. It was a Paris Sunday morning. Old women in black shawls were going into the church of Saint-Etienne-du-Mond. Each time the leather doors opened, it let a little whiff of incense out into the smoky morning air. Three pigeons walked about the cobblestones, putting their coral feet one before the other with an air of importance. The pointed façade of the church and its slender tower and cupula cast a bluest shadow on the square in front of it, into which the shadows the old women trailed behind them vanished as they hobbled towards the church. The opposite side of the square and the railing of the Pantheon and its tall brownish-gray flank were flooded with dull orange-colored sunlight. Andrews walked back and forth in front of the church, looking at the sky and the pigeons and the façade of the library of Saint-Jean-Vierre and at the rare people who passed across the end of the square, noting forms and colors and small comical aspects of things with calm delight, savoring everything almost with complacency. His music, he felt, was progressing now that, undisturbed, he lived all day long in the rhythm of it. His mind and his fingers were growing supple. The horrid moulds that had grown up about his spirit were softening. As he walked back and forth in front of the church, waiting for Jean, he took an inventory of his state of mind. He was very happy. Eh bien, Jean had come up behind him. They ran like children, hand in hand across the sunny square. I have not had any coffee yet, said Andrews. How late he must get up! But you can't have any till we get to the Port Meillot, Jean. Why not? Because I say you can't. That's cruelty. It won't be long. But I'm dying with hunger. I will die in your hands. How can't you understand once we get to the Port Meillot will be far from your life and my life? The day will be ours. One must not tempt fate. You funny girl. The matril was not crowded. Andrews and Jean sat opposite each other without talking. Andrews was looking at the girl's hands, limp on her lap, small overworked hands with places at the tips of the fingers where the skin was broken and scarred, with chipped, uneven nails. Suddenly she caught his glance. He flushed and she said, jauntily, well, we'll all be rich someday like princes and princesses in fairy tales. They both laughed. As they were leaving the train at the terminus, he put his arm timidly round her waist. She wore no corsets. His fingers trembled at the lightness of the flesh under her clothes. Feeling a sort of terror go through him, he took away his arm. Now, she said quietly as they emerged into the sunlight and the bare trees of the broad avenue, you can have all the cafe au lait you want. You'll have some too. Why be extravagant? I've had my petit déjeuner, but I'm going to be extravagant all day. We might as well start now. I don't know exactly why, but I am very happy. We'll eat brioche. But my dear, it's only profiteers who can eat brioche nowadays. You just watch us. They went into a pâtisserie, an elderly woman with a lean yellow face and thin hair weighted on them, casting envious glances up through her eyelashes as she piled the rich brown brioche on a piece of tissue paper. You'll pass the day in the country? She asked in a little wistful voice as she handed Andrews the change. Yes, he said, how well you guessed? As they went out of the door, they heard her muttering, oh, la jeunesse, la jeunesse. They found a table in the sun at the cafe opposite the gate, from which they could watch people and automobiles and carriages coming in and out. Beyond, a grass-grown bit of the fortifications gave an 1870 look to things. How jolly it is at the Port Mayo, cried Andrews. She looked at him and laughed. But how gay he is today. No, I always like it here. It's the spot in Paris where you always feel well. When you go out, you have all the fun of leaving town. When you go in, you have all the fun of coming back to town. But aren't you eating any brioche? I've eaten one. You eat them. You are hungry. Jeanne, I don't think I've ever been so happy in my life. It is almost worth having been in the army for the joy your freedom gives you. That frightful life. How is Etienne? He is in my house. He's bored. Jeanne, we must live very much. We who are free to make up for all the people who are still bored. A lot of good it'll do them, she cried, laughing. It's funny, Jeanne. I threw myself into the army. I was so sick of being free and not getting anywhere. Now I've learned that life is to be used, not just held in the hand like a box of bonbon that nobody eats. She looked at him blankly. I mean, I don't get enough out of life, he said. Let's go. They got to their feet. What do you mean? She said slowly. One takes what one gives, that is all. There's no choice. But look, there's the Mamezon train. We must run. Giggling and breathless, they climbed on the trailer, squeezing themselves on the back platform where everyone was pushing and exclaiming. The car began to juggle its way through Nuit. Their bodies were pressed together by the men and women about them. Andrews put his arm firmly around Jeanne's waist and looked down at her pale cheek that was pressed against his chest. Her little round black straw hat with a bit of a red flower on it was just under his chin. I can't see a thing, she gasped, still giggling. I'll describe the landscapes at Andrews. Why, we are crossing the Sen already. Oh, how pretty it must be. An old gentleman with a pointed white beard who stood beside them, laughed benevolently. But don't you think the Sen's pretty? Jeanne looked up at him impudently. Without a doubt, without a doubt, it was the way you said it, said the old gentleman. You are going to Saint-Germain? He asked Andrews. No, to Mamezon. Oh, you should go to Saint-Germain. Monsieur Groinach's prehistoric museum is there. It's very beautiful. You should not go home to your country without seeing it. Are there monkeys in it? Asked Jeanne. No, said the old gentleman, turning away. I adore monkeys, said Jeanne. The car was going along a broad, empty boulevard with trees and grass plots and rows of low-store houses and little dilapidated rooming houses along either side. Many people had got out and there was plenty of room, but Andrews kept his arm round the girl's waist. The constant contact with her body made him feel very languid. How good it smells, said Jeanne. It's the spring. I want to lie on the grass and eat violets. Oh, how good you were to bring me out like this, Jeanne. You must know lots of fine ladies you could have brought out because you were so well-educated. How is it you're only an ordinary soldier? Good God, I wouldn't be an officer. Why, it must be rather nice to be an officer. Does Etienne want to be an officer? But he's socialist, that's different. Well, I suppose I must be a socialist, too, but let's talk of something else. Andrews moved over to the other side of the platform. There were passing little villas with gardens on the road where yellow and pale purple crocuses bloomed. Now and then there was a scent of violets in the moist air. The sun had disappeared under soft, purplish-gray clouds. There was occasionally a rainy chill in the wind. Andrews suddenly thought of Jeanne Vievre-Roch. Curious how vividly he remembered her face, her wide, open eyes, and her way of smiling without moving her firm lips. A feeling of annoyance went through him. How silly of him to go off rudely like that. And he became very anxious to talk to her again, things he wanted to say to her came to his mind. Well, are you asleep? Said Jeanne, tugging at his arm. Here we are. Andrews flushed furiously. Oh, how nice it is here. How nice it is here, Jeanne was saying. Why, it is eleven o'clock, said Andrews. We must see the palace before lunch, cried Jeanne, and she started running up a lane of linden trees where the fat buds were just bursting into little crinkling fans of green. New grass was sprouting in the wet ditches on either side. Andrews ran after her, his feet pounding hard in the moist gravel road. When he caught up to her, he threw his arms around her recklessly and kissed her panting mouth. She broke away from him and strode to merely arranging her hat. Monster, she said, I trimmed this hat especially to come out with you and you do your best to wreck it. Poor little hat, said Andrews, but it is so beautiful today and you are very lovely, Jeanne. The great Napoleon must have said that to the Empress Josephine, and you know what he did to her, said Jeanne, almost solemnly. But she must have been awfully bored with him long before. No, said Jeanne, that's how women are. They went through big iron gates into the palace grounds. Later they sat at a table in the garden of a little restaurant. The sun, very pale, had just showed itself, making the knives and forks and the white wine in their glasses gleam faintly. Lunch had not come yet. They sat looking at each other silently. Andrews felt weary and melancholy. He could think of nothing to say. Jeanne was playing with some tiny white daisies with pink tips to their petals, arranging them in circles and crosses on the tablecloth. Aren't they slow? said Andrews. But it's nice here, isn't it? Jeanne smiled brilliantly, but how glum he looks now. She threw some daisies at him. Then, after a pause, she added mockingly. It's hunger, my dear. Good Lord, how dependent men are on food. Andrews drank down his wine at a gulp. He felt that if he could only make an effort, he could lift off the stifling melancholy that was settling down on him like a weight that kept growing heavier. A man in cocky with his face and neck scarlet staggered into the garden, dragging beside him a mud-encrusted bicycle. He sank into an iron chair, letting the bicycle fall with a clatter at his feet. Hi, hi, he called in a hoarse voice. A waiter appeared and contemplated him suspiciously. The man in cocky had hair as red as his face, which was glistening with sweat. His shirt was torn and he had no coat. His breeches and patees were invisible from mud. Give me a beer, croaked the man in cocky. The waiter shrugged his shoulders and walked away. You've the mong d'une bière, said Andrews. Maybe it's you, I'll pay, get it for him. The waiter disappeared. Thank ye, yank, roared the man in cocky. The waiter brought a tall, narrow yellow glass. The man in cocky took it from his hand, dragged it down at a draft and handed back the empty glass. Then he spat, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, got with difficulty to his feet and shambled towards Andrews' table. I presume the lady in you don't mind, yank, if I parley's with you a bit, do ye? No, come along. Where did you come from? The man in cocky dragged an iron chair behind him to a spot near the table. Before sitting down, he bobbed his head in the direction of Jaim, with an air of solemnity, tugging at the same time at a lock of his red hair. After some fumbling, he got a red-bordered handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face with it, leaving a long black smudge of machine oil on his forehead. I'm a bearer of important secret messages, yank, he said, leaning back in the little iron chair. I'm a dispatch rider. You look all in. Not a bit of it, I just did a little hold up, that's all. No, with the lane, some buggers tried to do me in. What do you mean? I guess they had a little information, that's all. I'm carrying important messages from our headquarters in Ron to your president. I was going through a bloody ticket pass this side. I don't know how you pronounce the bully town. I was on my bike making about 30 for the road, and was all on Merck when I saw four buggers standing across the road. Looked at me suspicious like, so I just jammed the juice into the bike and made for the middle end. He dodged all right. Then they started shooting and a bloody bullet buggered the bike. It was being born with a call that saved me. I picked myself up out of the ditch and lost them in the woods. Then I got to another bloody town and commented this old sweat machine. How many kills is there to Paris, yank? 15 or 16, I think. What's he saying, Jean? Some men tried to stop him on the road. He's a dispatch rider. Isn't he ugly? Is he English? Irish. You betcha miss, here long day, that's me. You picked a good looker this time, yank. But wait till I get to Paris or you clean up a good hundred pound on this job in bonuses. What parts you come from, yank? Virginia, I live in New York. I've been in Detroit. Going back there to get in the automobile business as soon as I clean up a few more bonuses. Europe's dead and stinking, yank. Ain't no place for a young fella. It's dead and stinking. That's what it is. Oh, it's pleasanter to live here than in America. Say, do you often get held up that way? Ain't happened to me before, but it has to pass the mine. Who do you think it was? I don't know. Unns are some of these bloody secret agents around the peace conference. But I got to go. That dispatch won't keep. All right, the beer's on me. Thank you, yank. The man got to his feet, shook hands with Andrews and Jean, jumped on the bicycle and rode out of the garden to the road, threading his way through the iron chairs and tables. Wasn't he a funny customer? cried Andrews, laughing. What a wonderful joke things are. The waiter arrived with the omelet that began their lunch. Gives you an idea of how the old lava's bubbling in the volcano. There's nowhere on earth a man can dance so well as on a volcano. But don't talk that way, said Jean, laying down her knife and fork. It's terrible. We will waste our youth to no purpose. Our fathers enjoyed themselves when they were young. And if there had been no war, we should have been so happy, Etienne and I. My father was a small manufacturer of soap and perfumery. Etienne would have had a splendid situation. I should never have had to work. We had a nice house. I should have been married. But this way, Jean, don't you have more freedom? She shrugged her shoulders. Later, she burst out. But what's the good of freedom? What can you do with it? What one wants is to live well and have a beautiful house and be respected by people. Whole life was so sweet in France before the war. In that case, it's not worth living, said Andrews in a savage voice, holding himself in. They went on eating silently. The sky became overcast. A few drops splashed on the tablecloth. We'll have to take coffee inside, said Andrews. And you think it is funny that people should shoot at a man on a motorcycle going through a wood? All that seems to me terrible, terrible, said Jean. Look out, here comes the rain. They ran into the restaurant through the first hissing sheet of the shower and sat at a table near a window, watching the raindrops dance and flicker on the green iron tables. A scent of wet earth and the mushroom-like odor of sodden leaves came in, born on damp gusts through the open door. A waiter closed the glass doors and bolted them. He wants to keep out the spring. He can't, said Andrews. They smiled at each other over their coffee cups. They were in sympathy again. When the rain stopped, they walked across wet fields by a footpath full of little clear puddles that reflected the blue sky and the white and amber-tinged clouds where the shadows were light, purplish gray. They walked slowly, arm in arm, pressing their bodies together. They were very tired. They did not know why and stopped often to rest leaning against the damp foals of trees. Beside a pond, pale blue and amber and silver from the reflected sky, they found under a big beech tree a patch of wild violets which Jean picked greedily, mixing them with the little crimson-tipped daisies in the tight bouquet. At the suburban railway station, they sat silent, side by side on a bench, sniffing the flowers now and then, so sunk in languid weariness that they could hardly summon strength to climb into a seat on top of a third-class coach, which was crowded with people coming home from a day in the country. Everybody had violets and crocuses and twigs with buds on them. In people's stiff, citified clothes lingered a smell of wet fields and sprouting woods. All the girls shrieked and threw their arms round the men when the train went through a tunnel or under a bridge. Whatever happened, everybody laughed. When the train arrived in the station, it was almost with reluctance that they left it as if they felt from that moment their workaday lives began again. Andrews and Jean walked down the platform without touching each other. Their fingers were stained and sticky from touching buds and crushing young sappy leaves and grass stalks. The air of the city seemed dense and unbreathable after the scented moisture of the fields. They dined at a little restaurant on the K-Voltaire and afterwards walked slowly towards the Place Saint-Michel, feeling the wine and the warmth of the food, sending new vigor into their tired bodies. Andrews had his arm round her and they talked in low, intimate voices, hardly moving their lips, looking long at the men and women they saw sitting twined in each other's arms on benches at the couples of boys and girls that kept passing them, talking slowly and quietly as they were, bodies pressed together as theirs were. How many lovers there are, said Andrews. Are we lovers? asked Jean with a crazy little laugh. I wonder, have you ever been crazily in love, Jean? I don't know, there was a boy in La named Marcelin, but I was a little fool then. The last news of him was from Verdun. Have you had many, like I am? How sentimental we are, she cried, laughing. No, I wanted to know. I know so little of life, said Andrews. I have amused myself as best I could, said Jean in a serious tone, but I am not frivolous. There have been very few men I have liked, so I have had few friends. Do you want to call them lovers? But lovers are what married women have on the stage. All that sort of thing is very silly. Not so very long ago, said Andrews, I used to dream of being romantically in love, with people climbing up the ivy on castle walls and fiery kisses on balconies in the moonlight. Like at the opera comique, cried Jean, laughing. That was all very silly, but even now I want so much more of life than life can give. They leaned over the parapet and listened to the hurrying swish of the river, now soft and now loud, where the reflections of the lights on the opposite bank writhed like golden snakes. Andrews noticed that there was someone beside them. The faint greenish glow from the lamp on the quay enabled him to recognize the lame boy he had talked to two months ago on the boot. I wonder if you will remember me, he said. You are the American who was in the restaurant, plus to tout. I don't remember when, but it was long ago. They shook hands. But you were alone, said Andrews. Yes, I am always alone, said the lame boy firmly. Au revoir, said Andrews. Good luck, said the lame boy. Andrews heard his crutch tapping on the pavement as he went away along the quay. Jean, said Andrews, suddenly. You come home with me, won't you? But you have a friend living with you. He's gone to Brussels, he won't be back till tomorrow. I suppose one must pay for one's dinner, said Jean maliciously. Good God, no. Andrews buried his face in his hands. The sing-song of the river pouring through the bridges filled his ears. He wanted desperately to cry. Bitter desire that was like hatred made his flesh tingle, made his hands ache to crush her hands in them. Come along, he said gruffly. I didn't mean to say that, she said in a gentle tired voice. You know I'm not a very nice person. The greenish glow of the lamp lit up the contour of one of her cheeks as she tilted her head up and glimmered in her eyes. A soft, sentimental sadness suddenly took hold of Andrews. He felt as he used to feel when, as a very small child, his mother used to tell him brer rabbit stories and he would feel himself drifting helplessly on the stream of her soft voice, narrating, drifting towards something unknown and very sad, which he could not help. They started walking again, past the Pont Neuf, towards the glare of the Place Saint Michel. Three names had come into Andrews' head. Arsino, Berenice, Artemisia. For a little while he puzzled over them and then he remembered that Genvieve Rowe had the large eyes and the wide, smooth forehead and the firm little lips the women had in the portraits that were sewn on the mummy cases in the Fayoum. But those patrician women of Alexandria had not had chestnut hair with a glimpse of burnished copper in it. They might have died it, though. Why are you laughing? asked Genvieve. Because things are so silly. Perhaps you mean people are silly, she said, looking up at him out of the corners of her eyes. You're right. They walked in silence till they reached Andrews' door. You go up first and see that there's no one there, said Genvieve in a business-like tone. Andrews' hands were cold. He felt his heart thumping while he climbed the stairs. The room was empty. A fire was ready to light in the small fireplace. Andrews hastily tidied up the table and kicked under the bed some soiled clothes that lay in a heap in a corner. A thought came to him. How like his performances in his room at college when he had heard that her relative was coming to see him. He tiptoed downstairs. Bien, to buvenir, Jean, he said. She sat down rather stiffly in the straight-backed armchair beside the fire. How pretty the fire is, she said. Jean, I think I'm crazily in love with you, said Andrews in an excited voice. Like at the opera-comique, she shrugged her shoulders. The room's nice, she said. Oh, but what a big bed. You're the first woman who's been up here in my time, Jean. Oh, but this uniform is frightful. Andrews thought suddenly of all the tingling bodies restrained into the rigid attitudes of automatons in uniforms like this one, of all the hideous farce of making men into machines. Oh, some gesture of his could only free them all for life and freedom and joy. The thought drowned everything else for the moment. But you pull the button off, cried Jean, laughing hysterically. I'll just have to sew it on again. Never mind if you knew how I hated them. What white skin you have, like a woman's. I suppose that's because you are blonde, said Jean. The sound of the door being shaken vigorously woke Andrews. He got up and stood in the middle of the floor for a moment without being able to collect his wits. The shaking of the door continued and he heard Walters' voice crying, Andy, Andy! Andrews felt shame creeping up through him like nausea. He felt a passionate disgust towards himself and Jean and Walters. He had an impulse to move furtively as if he had stolen something. He went to the door and opened it a little. Say, Walters, old man, he said, I can't let you in. I've got a girl with me. I'm sorry, I thought you wouldn't get back till tomorrow. You're kidding, aren't you? came Walters' voice out of the dark hall. No, Andrews shut the door decisively and bolted it again. Jean was still asleep. Her black hair had come undone and spread over the pillow. Andrews pulled the covers up about her carefully. Then he got into the other bed where he lay awake a long time, staring at the ceiling. End of section 13.