“Ah—I thought so! I caught you in ecstasy before that sucking pig at least a dozen times!”
Then laughing, he presented Fallowby with a roll of twenty franc pieces saying: “If these go for luxuries you must live on your own flesh,” and went over to aid West, who sat beside the wash-basin binding up his hand.
West suffered him to tie the knot, and then said: “You remember, yesterday, when I left you and Braith to take the chicken to Colette.”
“Chicken! Good Heavens!” moaned Fallowby.
“Chicken,” repeated West, enjoying Fallowby’s grief;—“I—that is, I must explain that things are changed. Colette and I—are to be married———”
“What—what about the chicken?” groaned Fallowby.
“Shut up!” laughed Trent, and slipping his arm through West’s, walked to the stairway.
“The poor little thing,” said West, “just think, not a splinter of firewood for a week and wouldn’t tell me because she thought I needed it for my clay figure. Whew! When I heard it I smashed that smirking clay nymph to pieces, and the rest can freeze and be hanged!” After a moment he added timidly:—“Won't you call on your way down and say bon soir? It’s No. 17.”
“Yes,” said Trent,and he went out softly closing the door behind.
He stopped on the third landing, lighted a match, scanned the numbers over the row of dingy doors, and knocked at No. 17.
“C’est toi Georges?” The door opened.
