"No," said Bill. "I don't need it."
We turned to the right off the Place Contrescarpe, walking along smooth narrow streets with high old houses on both sides. Some of the houses jutted out toward the street. Others were cut back. We came onto the Rue du Pot de Fer and followed it along until it brought us to the rigid north and south of the Rue Saint Jacques and then walked south, past Val de Grâce, set back behind the courtyard and the iron fence, to the Boulevard du Port Royal.
"What do you want to do?" I asked. "Go up to the café and see Brett and Mike?"
"Why not?"
We walked along Port Royal until it became Montparnasse, and then on past the Lilas, Lavigne's, and all the little cafés, Damoy's, crossed the street to the Rotonde, past its lights and tables to the Select.
Michael came toward us from the tables. He was tanned and healthy-looking.
"Hel-lo, Jake," he said. "Hel-lo! Hel-lo! How are you, old lad?"
"You look very fit, Mike."
"Oh, I am. I'm frightfully fit. I've done nothing but walk. Walk all day long. One drink a day with my mother at tea."
Bill had gone into the bar. He was standing talking with Brett, who was sitting on a high stool, her legs crossed. She had no stockings on.
"It's good to see you, Jake," Michael said. "I'm a little tight you know. Amazing, isn't it? Did you see my nose?"
There was a patch of dried blood on the bridge of his nose.
"An old lady's bags did that," Mike said. "I reached up to help her with them and they fell on me."
Brett gestured at him from the bar with her cigarette-holder and wrinkled the corners of her eyes.
"An old lady," said Mike. "Her bags fell on me. Let's go in
