slow-passing and empty minutes. Long before seven o'clock I was back
at the Vingtieme.

I sat there just where I had sat for luncheon. Air came in listlessly
through the open door behind me. Now and again Rose or Berthe
appeared for a moment. I had told them I would not order any dinner till
Mr. Soames came. A hurdy-gurdy began to play, abruptly drowning the
noise of a quarrel between some Frenchmen farther up the street.
Whenever the tune was changed I heard the quarrel still raging. I had
bought another evening paper on my way. I unfolded it. My eyes gazed
ever away from it to the clock over the kitchen door.

Five minutes now to the hour! I remembered that clocks in
restaurants are kept five minutes fast. I concentrated my eyes on the
paper. I vowed I would not look away from it again. I held it upright, at
its full width, close to my face, so that I had no view of anything but it.
Rather a tremulous sheet? Only because of the draft, I told myself.

My arms gradually became stiff; they ached; but I could not drop
them--now. I had a suspicion, I had a certainty. Well, what, then? What
else had I come for? Yet I held tight that barrier of newspaper. Only the
sound of Berthe's brisk footstep from the kitchen enabled me, forced me,
to drop it, and to utter:

"What shall we have to eat, Soames?"

"Il est souffrant, ce pauvre Monsieur Soames?" asked Berthe.

"He's only--tired." I asked her to get some wine--Burgundy--and
whatever food might be ready. Soames sat crouched forward against the