Once again she raised her eyes with that expression of puzzled interest. This was not like Monte. Of course he would accompany her home, but that he should seem really to take pleasure in the prospect—that was novel.
"Let me call a taxi," he said. "I'm never sure where these French undergrounds are going to land me."
"They are much quicker," she suggested.
"There is no hurry," he answered.
With twenty-four hours a day on his hands, he was never in a hurry.
Instead of giving to the driver the number sixty-four Boulevard Saint-Germain, he ordered him to forty-seven Rue Saint-Michel, which is the Café d'Harcourt.
It had suddenly occurred to Monte what the trouble was with him. He was lonesome.