They sat side by side on the stone bench without touching each other.
“It's silly,” burst out Andrews excitedly. “We should have faith in our own selves. We can't live a little rag of romance without dragging in literature. We are drugged with literature so that we can never live at all, of ourselves.”
“Jean, how did you come down here? Have you been demobilized long?”'
“I walked almost all the way from Paris. You see, I am very dirty.”
“How wonderful! But I'll be quiet. You must tell me everything from the moment you left me in Chartres.”
“I'll tell you about Chartres later,” said Andrews gruffly. “It has been superb, one of the biggest weeks in my life, walking all day under the sun, with the road like a white ribbon in the sun over the hills and along river banks, where there were yellow irises blooming, and through woods full of blackbirds, and with the dust in a little white cloud round my feet, and all the time walking towards you, walking towards you.”
“And la Reine de Saba, how is it coming?”
“I don't know. It's a long time since I thought of it.... You have been here long?”
“Hardly a week. But what are you going to do?”
“I have a room overlooking the river in a house owned by a very fat woman with a very red face and a tuft of hair on her chin....”