“I should like something to eat. Can we get anything here?” “I’m afraid not.—It’s rather late for this neighbourhood. Let’s take these things to your room—on the way—and go to the Grands Boulevards.” They stayed till the small hours of the morning, in the midst of “Paris by Night” of the German bourgeois imagination, drinking champagne and toasting the creditors Kreisler had left behind in Rome. Kreisler, measured by chairs or doors, was of immoderate physical humanity. He was of that select section, corporally, that exceed the mean. His long round thighs stuck out like poles. This large body lounged and poised beside Volker in massive control and over-reaching of civilized matter. It was in Rome or in Paris. It had an air of possession everywhere. Volker was stranger in Paris than his companion, who had only just arrived. He felt a little raw and uncomfortable, almost a tourist. He was being shown “Paris by Night”; almost literally, for his inclinations had not taken him much to that side of the town. Objects—cocottes, newsvendors, waiters—flowed through Kreisler’s brain without trouble or surprise. His heavy eyes were big gates of a self-centred city. It was just a procession. There was no trade in the town. He was a property of Nature, or a favourite slave, untidy and aloof. Kreisler so real and at home was like a ghost sitting there beside him, for Ernst Volker. He had not had the time to solidify yet in Paris by all rights, and yet was so solid and accustomed at once. _This body was in Paris now!_—with an heroic freedom. Volker began looking for himself. He was only made of cheap thin stuff. He picked up the pieces quietly. This large rusty machine of a man smashed him up like an egg-shell at every meeting. His shell grew quickly again, but never got hard enough. He was glad to see him again! Kreisler was a good fellow.—Despite himself Ernst Volker was fidgety at the lateness of the hour. The next day Fräulein Bodenaar, who was sitting for him, was due at 9.30. But the first night of seeing his friend again—He drank rather more than usual, and became silent, thinking of his Westphalian home and his sister who was not very well. She had had a bicycle accident, and had received a considerable shock. He might spend the summer with her and his mother at Berck-sur-Mer or Calais. He would have gone home for a week or so now, only an aunt he did not like was staying there. “Well, let’s get back!” said Kreisler, rather thoughtful, too, at all the life he had seen. CHAPTER III