Tarr had argued that an interest of this sort would prevent him from becoming arty and silly.—Tarr would have driven his entire circle of acquaintances into commerce if he could. He had at first cherished the ambition of getting Hobson into a bank in South Africa. As he rushed along then a gaunt car met him, rushing in the opposite direction. Butcher’s large red nose stood under a check cap phenomenally peaked. A sweater and Yankee jacket exaggerated his breadth. He was sunk in horizontal massiveness in the car—almost in the road. A quizzing, heavy smile broke his face open in an indifferent businesslike way. It was a sour smile, as though half his face were frozen with cocaine.—He pulled up with the air of an Iron-Age mechanic, born among beds of embryonic machinery. “Ah, I thought I might see you.”—He rolled over the edge and stood grinning and stretching in front of his friend. “Where are you off to?” Tarr asked. “I heard there were some gypsies encamped over by Charenton.”—He smiled and waited, his entire face breaking up expectantly into cunning pits and traps.—Mention of “gypsies” usually drew Tarr. They were a survival of Butcher’s pre-motor days. “Neglecting business?” was all Tarr said however. “Have you time for a drink?” “Yes!” Butcher turned with an airy jerk to his car. “Shall we go to the Panthéon?” “How about the Univers? Would that take long?” “The Univers? Four or five minutes.—Jump in.” When they had got to the Univers and ordered their drink, Tarr said: “I’ve just been talking to Alan Hobson. I’ve been telling him off.” “That’s right.—How had he deserved it?” “Oh, he happened to drop on me when I was thinking about my girl. He began congratulating me on my engagement. So I gave him my views on marriage, and then wound up with a little improvisation about himself.” Butcher maintained a decorous silence, drinking his beer. “You’re not engaged to be married, are you?” he asked. “Well, that’s a difficult question.”—Tarr laughed with circumspection and softness. “I don’t know whether I am or whether I’m not.” “Would it be the German girl, if you were?” “Yes, she’d be the one.” There was a careful absence of comment in Butcher’s face. “Ought I to marry the Lunken?” “No,” Butcher said with measure. “In that case I ought to tell her at once.” “That is so.” Tarr had a dark morning coat, whose tails flowed behind him as he walked strongly and quickly along, and curled on either side of his hips as he sat. It was buttoned half-way down the body.—He was taller than Butcher, wore glasses, had a dark skin, and a steady, unamiable, impatient expression. He was clean-shaven, with a shallow, square jaw and straight, thick mouth.—His hands were square and usually hot.