believe in it, but the rest are silent, seeing the
Seine wind under its bridges, cool as satin, grey-blue with evening,
or the sawdust of a restaurant near the quais where one can eat
Rabelaisiantly for six francs with wine and talk about anything at all
without having to pose or explain or be defensive, or the chimneypots of
La Cite branch-black against winter sky that is pallor of crimson when
the smell of roast chestnuts drifts idly as a student along Boulevard
St. Germain, or none of these, or all, but for each one nostalgic aspect
of the city where good Americans go when they die and bad ones while
they live--to Montmartre.

"New York _is_ twice as romantic, really," says Johnny firmly.

"If you can't get out of it," adds Oliver with a twisted grin.

Ted Billett turns to Ricky French as if each had no other friend in the
world.

"You were over, weren't you?" he says, a little diffidently, but his
voice is that of Rachel weeping for her children.

"Well, there was a little cafe on the Rue Bonaparte--I suppose you
wouldn't know--"

III

The party has adjourned to Stovall's dog-kennel-sized apartment on
West Eleventh Street with oranges and ice, Peter Piper having suddenly
remembered a little place he knows where what gin is to be bought is
neither diluted Croton water nor hell-fire. The long drinks gather
pleasantly on the table, are consumed by all but Johnny, gather again.
The talk grows more fluid, franker.

"Phil Sellaby?---oh, the great Phil's just had a child--I mean his wife
has, but Phil's been having a book all winter and it's hard not to get
'em mixed up. Know the girl he married?"

"Ran Waldo had a necking acquaintance with her at one time or another,
I believe. But now she's turned serious, I hear--_tres serieuse--tres
bonne femme_--"

"I bet his book'll be a cuckoo, then. Trouble with women. Can't do any
art and be married if you're in love with your wife. Instink--instinct
of creation--same thing in both cases--use it one way, not enough
left for other--unless, of course, like Goethe, you--" "Rats! Look at
Rossetti--Browning---Augustus John--William Morris--"

_"Browning!_ Dear man, when the public knows the _truth_ about the
Brownings!"

Ricky French is getting a little drunk but it shows itself only in a
desire to make every sentence unearthly cogent with perfect words.

"Unhappy marriage--ver' good--stimula-shion," he says, carefully but
unsteadily, "other thing--tosh!"

Pete