"I dare say he is," said Mrs. Braddocks.
"I have to shove off," I said. "Good night."
I said good night to Brett at the bar. The count was buying champagne. "Will you take a glass of wine with us, sir?" he asked.
"No. Thanks awfully. I have to go."
"Really going?" Brett asked.
"Yes," I said. "I've got a rotten headache."
"I'll see you to-morrow?"
"Come in at the office."
"Hardly."
"Well, where will I see you?"
"Anywhere around five o'clock."
"Make it the other side of town then."
"Good. I'll be at the Crillon at five."
"Try and be there," I said.
"Don't worry," Brett said. "I've never let you down, have I?"
"Heard from Mike?"
"Letter to-day."
"Good night, sir," said the count.
I went out onto the sidewalk and walked down toward the Boulevard St. Michel, passed the tables of the Rotonde, still crowded, looked across the street at the Dome, its tables running out to the edge of the pavement. Some one waved at me from a table, I did not see who it was and went on. I wanted to get home. The Boulevard Montparnasse was deserted. Lavigne's was closed tight, and they were stacking the tables outside the Closerie des Lilas. I passed Ney's statue standing among the new-leaved chestnut-trees in the arc-light. There was a faded purple wreath leaning against the base. I stopped and read the inscription: from the Bonapartist Groups, some date; I forget. He looked very fine, Marshal Ney in his top-boots, gesturing with his sword among the green new horse-chestnut leaves. My flat was just across the street, a little way down the Boulevard St. Michel.
