"All right -- all right -- and -- er -- just don't mention about my
having a flask, if you do meet any of them. I -- er -- keep it for
others. I don't drink."

"Certainly not," began Gethryn, but Mr T. Hoppley Bulfinch had
seized his campstool and trotted away across the square.

Gethryn leaned into the cab.

"Will you give me your address?" he asked gently.

"Rue Monsieur le Prince -- 430 -- " she whispered. "Do you know
where it is?"

"Yes," said Gethryn. It was his own number.

"Rue Monsieur le Prince 430", he repeated to the driver, and
stepping in, softly shut the door.

Four

Rain was falling steadily. The sparrows huddled under the eaves, or
hopped disconsolately along the windowsills, uttering short,
ill-tempered chirps. The wind was rising, blowing in quick, sharp
gusts and sweeping the forest of rain spears, rank upon rank, in mad
dashes against the glass-roofed studio.

Gethryn, curled up in a corner of his sofa, listlessly watched the
showers of pink and white blossoms which whirled and eddied down from
the rocking chestnuts, falling into the windy court in little heaps.