FOR a moment he wondered if he was going to feel hurt about it, then, as nothing of the kind happened, he leapt with joy, and his spring mattress bounced him up to the ceiling. He took his address book, his private letters, even the little red notebook, and burnt them all. A feeling of youth and self-confidence came over him, and in the silence of the small hours, gave him a glimpse of a new life in which he would be more free than he had ever been. He would be able to live quite a different life to that made up of days strung together by artificiality. An entirely new relationship with the world was unfolding itself. Irene must be his. He opened the window. A black cat was crossing the grass plot. Factory hooters sounded in the suburbs. Lewis did not want to be alone; he dressed and went out. A lorry passed, loaded with carrots. He jumped on behind as he used to do as a boy when he went to school, in spite of severe admonitions. Dangling his legs and gnawing carrots, he crossed Paris by tortuous streets, empty save for milk cans, and never stopped till he reached the banks of the Saint-Martin canal, with its towpaths and little low houses like a Flemish port. In order to assert itself, already triumphing over the night, the light neglected nothing that it could reach, especially all the smoothest parts of the landscape, the water of the canal, the stone quays, the iron sides of the tugs. Through the idle lock gates trickled a gentle gilded grey stream of water, whose colour was not reflected from any glow in the east. The huge mass of the warehouses was mirrored in the deep crimson waters of the canal. In the holds of the barges could be heard the stamping of mules eager to resume the towpath. Things looked so simple and natural, neither fresh nor tired, fulfilling their destinies and working towards the common end. Huge barges with their cargoes of Belgian goods slept on the deep water. After drinking a glass of white wine, Lewis walked about waiting for the day to break and for the shutters to come down at the big Post Office in the Rue du Louvre. Then he went in and composed a reply-paid telegram to Irene on the steps. He explained that his life was over unless she would be his wife. Then he went home, took the receiver off the telephone, drew the curtains and waited in the darkness, lying on his bed. At midday a telegram was brought to him. He held it in his hands for a while without opening it, then pushed it under his bolster, laid it on his knees, on a chair, on the mantlepiece. At last, towards evening, he found he had enjoyed the excitement long enough. He read:-- LONDON. 22.11.22. 14331 A. Let's try. Irene. PART THREE I "IRENE, I've got a present for you," said Lewis. "What is it?"