crowd into the few moments at their disposal. The Scantleberries were on their way to join a yachting party bound for Greece.
Grover's eyes fell on the open passport in Sophie's hand.
She hid the photograph from view with an odd smile. "I don't mind their making me look ugly," she said with a nervous acerbity that masked heaven knew what recollections, "but I do hate them to make me look common!"
Grover's train was ready to leave and he had to hurry away.
A gay, mournful tune was running through his head: Let's talk about my sweetie now— ······· When he alighted from his cab in the rue Truffaut the laundress, mending shirts in the sunshine, as though loath to sit indoors while even the illusion of summer remained, looked up with her bright hard smile. Mme. Choiseul wept for pleasure, and Mouwche conscientiously smelt him, withholding a verdict.
In a sense it was like arriving in a new city, for he had been envisaging a new life for himself, and what was adventure but the act of verifying your imaginative charts! Paris was to discover, all over again.
With his bags unpacked and his belongings set to rights again in the shabby old room, he arrived at an anti-climax. Sinking into the familiar chairs was to
