of those unfortunate wretches who cannot drink wine at all. He
had offered to take the girl home in a cab, and on the way he had
lost his head.

Oh! What a wretched thing it was. He could hardly believe that
it was he who had spoken those frenzied words; and yet he must
have spoken them, because he remembered them. He remembered that
it had taken a long time to persuade her. He had had to promise
her a ring like the one her married friend wore. Before they
entered her home she had made him take off his shoes, so that the
porter might not hear them. This had struck George particularly,
because, even flushed with excitement as he was, he had not
forgotten the warnings his father had given him as to the dangers
of contact with strange women. He had thought to himself, "This
girl must be safe. It is probably the first time she has ever
done such a thing."

But now George could get but little consolation out of that idea.
He was suffering intensely--the emotion described by the poet in
the bitter words about "Time's moving finger having writ." His
mind, seeking some explanation, some justification, went back to
the events before that night. With a sudden pang of yearning, he
thought of Lizette. She was a decent girl, and had kept him
decent, and he was lonely without her. He had been so afraid of
being found out that he had given her up when he became engaged;
but now for a while he felt that he would have to break his
resolution, and pay his regular Sunday visit to the little flat
in the working-class portion of Paris.

It was while George was fitting himself for the same career as