“I came to see a man who was going to tell me how I could get to Rumania with the Red Cross.... But that can wait.... Let's get out of here. God, I was afraid you hadn't made it.”
“I had to crawl on my belly and lick people's boots to do it.... God, it was low!... But here I am.”
They were out in the street again, walking and gesticulating.
“But 'Libertad, Libertad, allons, ma femme!' as Walt Whitman would have said,” shouted Andrews.
“It's one grand and glorious feeling.... I've been here three days. My section's gone home; God bless them.”
“But what do you have to do?”
“Do? Nothing,” cried Henslowe. “Not a blooming bloody goddam thing! In fact, it's no use trying... the whole thing is such a mess you couldn't do anything if you wanted to.”
“I want to go and talk to people at the Schola Cantorum.”
“There'll be time for that. You'll never make anything out of music if you get serious-minded about it.”
“Then, last but not least, I've got to get some money from somewhere.”