Tarr pulled out a very heavy and determined-looking watch. He would have suffered had he been compelled to use a small watch. For the time to be microscopic and noiseless would be unbearable. The time _must_ be human. That he insisted on. And it must not be pretty or neat. “It is late. I must go. Must you get back to Passy or can you stop?” “Do you know, I’m afraid I must get back. I have to lunch with a fellow at one, who is putting me on to a good thing. But can I take you anywhere? Or are you lunching here?” “No.—Take me as far as the Samaritaine, will you?” Butcher took him along two sides of the Louvre, to the river. “Good-bye, then. Don’t forget Saturday, six o’clock.” Butcher nodded in bright, clever silence. He shuffled into his car again, working his shoulders like a verminous tramp. He rushed away, piercing blasts from his horn rapidly softening as he became smaller. Tarr was glad he had brought the car and Butcher together. They were opposites with some grave essential in common. His usual lunch time an hour away, his so far unrevised programme was to go to the Rue Lhomond and search for Hobson’s studio. For the length of a street it was equally the road to the studio and to Bertha’s rooms. He knew to which he was going. But a sensation of peculiar freedom and leisure possessed him. There was no hurry. Was there any hurry to go where he was going? With a smile in his mind, his face irresponsible and solemn, he turned sharply into a narrow street, rendered dangerous by motor-buses, and asked at a _loge_ if Monsieur Lowndes were in. “Monsieur Lounes? Je pense que oui. Je ne l’ai pas vu sortir.” He ascended to the fourth floor and rang a bell. Lowndes was in. He heard him coming on tiptoe to the door, and felt him gazing at him through an invisible crack. He placed himself in a favourable position. CHAPTER III Tarr’s idea of leisure recognized no departure from the tragic theme of existence. Pleasure could take no form that did not include Death and corruption—at present Bertha and humour. Only he wished to play a little longer. It was the last chance he might have. _Work_ was in front of him with Bertha. He was giving up _play_. But the giving up of play, even, had to take the form of play. He had seen in terms of sport so long that he had no other machinery to work with. _Sport might perhaps, for the fun of the thing, be induced to cast out sport._ As Lowndes crept towards the door, Tarr said to himself, with ironic self-restraint, “_Bloody_ fool, _bloody_ fool!”