‘Cure!’ he repeated after me. ‘There’s no cure. Here I am! Me!’
His glass was empty. He tapped on the window behind us, and the procession of waiters occurred again, and Diaz received a third glass, which now stood on three saucers.
‘You’ll excuse me,’ he said, sipping slowly. ‘I’m not very well to-night. And you’ve—Why did you run away from me? I wanted to find you, but I couldn’t.’
‘Please do not let us talk about that,’ I stopped him. ‘I—I must go.’
‘Oh, of course, if I’ve offended you—’
‘No,’ I said; ‘I’m not at all offended. But I think—’
‘Then, if you aren’t offended, stop a little, and let me see you home. You’re sure you won’t have anything?’
I shook my head, wishing that he would not drink so much. I thought it could not be good for his nerves.
‘Been in Paris long?’ he asked me, with a slightly confused utterance. ‘Staying in this quarter? Many English and Americans here.’
Then, in setting down the glass, he upset it, and it smashed on the pavement like the first one.