batted out of the conversation like toy balloons.

"Bunny Andrews sailed for Paris Thursday," says Ted Billett longingly. "Two
years at the Beaux Arts," and for an instant the splintering of lances
stops, like the hush in a tournament when the marshal throws down the
warder, at the shine of that single word.

"All the same, New York is the best place to be right now if you're going
to do anything big," says Johnny uncomfortably, too much as if he felt he
just had to 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