“Don't thank me—thank the gods,” replied Deulin, with a sudden gravity.
“Well,” said Cartoner presently, without ceasing to write, “what do you want?”
Deulin glanced at his friend with a gleam of suspicion.
“What do I want?” he inquired, innocently.
“Yes. You want something. I always know when you want something. When you are most idle you are most occupied.”
“Ah!”
Cartoner wrote on while Deulin lighted a cigarette and smoked half of it with a leisurely enjoyment of its bouquet.
“There is a certain smell in the Rue Royale, left-hand side looking towards the Column—the shady side, after the street has been watered—that my soul desires,” said the Frenchman, at length.
“When are you going?” asked Cartoner, softly.
“I am not going; I wish I were. I thought I was last night. I thought I had done my work here, and that it would be unnecessary to wait on indefinitely for——”