And as they surged through the echoing solitude of the boulevard, and as
they crossed the equally tremendous boulevard that cut through it east and
west, Tommy told the story of Nick's previous relations with Rosamund. Nick
had met Rosamund once before through her English chum, Betty Burke, an art
student who had ultimately sacrificed art to the welfare of her sex, but
who with Mrs. Burke had shared rooms and studio with Nick for many months.
Tommy's narrative was spotted with hardly perceptible sarcasms concerning
art, women, Betty Burke, Mrs. Burke, and Nick; but she put no barb into
Rosamund. And when Miss Ingate, who had never met Rosamund, asked what
Rosamund amounted to in the esteem of Tommy, Tommy evaded the question.
Miss Ingate remembered, however, what she had said in the café-restaurant.

Then they turned into the Rue Delambre, and Tommy halted them in the deep
obscurity in front of another of those huge black doors which throughout
Paris seemed to guard the secrets of individual life. An automobile was
waiting close by. A little door in the huge one clicked and yielded, and
they climbed over a step into black darkness.

"Thompkins!" called Miss Thompkins loudly to the black darkness, to
reassure the drowsy concierge in his hidden den, shutting the door with a
bang behind them; and, groping for the hands of the others, she dragged
them forward stumbling.

"I never have a match," she said.

They blundered up tenebrous stairs.

"We're just passing my door," said Tommy. "Nick's is higher up."