A woman in a bright blue hat passed them. Andrews caught a glimpse of a white over-powdered face; her hips trembled like jelly under the blue skirt with each hard clack of her high heels on the pavement.
“Gee, that looks like Jenny.... I'm glad she didn't see me....” Fuselli laughed. “Ought to 'a seen her one night last week. We were so dead drunk we just couldn't move.”
“Isn't that bad for what's the matter with you?”
“I don't give a damn now; what's the use?”
“But God; man!” Andrews stopped himself suddenly. Then he said in a different voice, “What outfit are you in now?”
“I'm on the permanent K.P. here,” Fuselli jerked his thumb towards the door of the building. “Not a bad job, off two days a week; no drill, good eats.... At least you get all you want.... But it surely has been hell emptying ash cans and shovelling coal an' now all they've done is dry me up.”
“But you'll be goin' home soon now, won't you? They can't discharge you till they cure you.”
“Damned if I know.... Some guys say a guy never can be cured....”
“Don't you find K.P. work pretty damn dull?”
“No worse than anything else. What are you doin' in Paris?”