“All right! Meet me at the cafe at the end of the Boul' Mich' at a quarter past seven.... But you probably won't come.”
“I swear I will,” cried Andrews eagerly.
“We'll see!” She darted away down the street beside St. Etienne-du-Mont. Andrews was left alone amid the seethe of the rain and the tumultuous gurgle of water-spouts. He felt calm and tired.
When he got to his room, he found he had no matches in his pocket. No light came from the window through which he could hear the hissing clamor of the rain in the court. He stumbled over a chair.
“Are you drunk?” came Walters's voice swathed in bedclothes. “There are matches on the table.”
“But where the hell's the table?”
At last his hand, groping over the table, closed on the matchbox.
The match's red and white flicker dazzled him. He blinked his eyes; the lashes were still full of raindrops. When he had lit a candle and set it amongst the music papers upon the table, he tore off his dripping clothes.
“I just met the most charming girl, Walters,” Andrews stood naked beside the pile of his clothes, rubbing himself with a towel. “Gee! I was wet.... But she was the most charming person I've met since I've been in Paris.”
“I thought you said you let the girls alone.”