“Where are you going this time?”
“I’ve taken a logement on the Passage d’Enfer; you know it—a right-angled street of quaint old houses that runs into the Boulevard Raspail.”
“I know. I once lived in the rue Boissonniere. What are you going to do now?”
“Another novel, I suppose. I have enough money to last me for five months. Just fancy! five months to write and not worry about anything at all. How’s Frosine and the Môme?”
Helstern beamed. Then for the first time I noticed a remarkable change in him. No longer could I call him the “melancholy Dane” (he was really a Swede, by the way). He had discarded his severe black stock for a polka-dot Lavallière, and he was actually wearing a check suit.
“Come with us on Sunday. We are all going to St. Cloud.”
“I’ll ask my wife. Thing’s going all right?”
“Yes, I think she’ll consent to name the day.”
“Well, I congratulate you. And how’s Lorrimer?”
“He seems to have taken up with a new girl, a dark, Italian kind of a type. I’ve seen him with her at the cafés. He’s fickle in his attachments.”