"Très bien, très bien!" cried le Capitaine Eustache de la Potinière as the curtain came down, and clapped with gloved hands. "No, after you!" Then, as he followed Fanshaw down the steps into the lobby of the theatre, he said: "It would be a good thing if more French and American officers were seen together at these affairs. It would improve our relations with Italy ... They are impressionable people. In Italy one must be seen." The sallowfaced young man was waiting for them outside the theatre. "Vous suivez moi," he said in nasal French. "But where are you going? I'm afraid I must go back to my hotel." "But surely you'll cast just a glance at them ... It won't take long. They are said to be very handsome." "Why, who?" Fanshaw was suddenly very agitated. Think, if after all these years ... Of course, an interesting thing to see for once; sociological study. "What do you mean? I don't understand," he said. His companion burst out laughing. "The little ladies of Palermo, of course ... Come along, everything's arranged." "All right." Of course, just a glimpse, to see what a place like that was like. Nobody could know, he'd never see this Frenchman again. They followed the sallowfaced man up a steep dark street. Fanshaw looked up at the sky that was bubbling with stars. The bright streak overhead narrowed as the cornices of the houses drew together. The street was empty. Once a cat brushed past his legs. At last they stood panting on the broad stepping-stone in front of a door. The guide's three knocks resounded hollowly. "Such calm," whispered le Capitaine Eustache de la Potinière in Fanshaw's ear, slipping a hand under his arm. "At such moments I admit that I am rather agitated always. I congratulate you on your calm." The guide knocked again. Somewhere up the street a rooster crowed. "It must be midnight," said the French captain. The door opened softly. A fatfaced woman stood in the hallway holding a taper above her head, and stared at them searchingly through narrowed eyes. She and the guide talked in low hurried Sicilian. "Vous suivez moi," said the sallowfaced man. They walked after him up a winding stone stair, the woman following with the taper. They came out on a landing, went through a passageway and found themselves in a brightly lighted room with pink wallpaper and gold-framed mirrors. "Ah!" said the French captain, pulling off his gloves. They sat down at a marble-topped table with carved ebony legs. The fatfaced woman who had opened the door hung over them, grinning. "Let's drink a little something ... Une bouteille de Marsala," he said and rubbed his hands. "I like the quiet, gentlemanly way you Americans do these things. Very distinguished." The woman opened a cupboard and produced a bottle and glasses on a silver tray. She poured out four glasses. "A desso," she said, and her grin reached nearly to her ears.