I had never looked for the need in any woman’s face. I had been absorbed in contemplation of my own chastity--had hurried through life with hands in pockets, fearful lest I might be robbed. Vi’s need, which I had recognized, I had made ten times more poignant. I had waited for her. What good had I done by it? I might go on waiting. Meanwhile there were Fiesole and Life knocking at my door. My constancy to Vi had become a luxury. A girl slipped her arm in mine. “’Allo! You zink I am pretty?” She was a _cocotte_, little more than a child, so delicate and slight. Her hair was flaxen and blowy; her complexion a transparent china-white; her dress décolleté and cut in a deep V between the breasts. She pushed her small face up to mine with the red lips parted, clinging to me with the innocent familiarity of one who had asked no more than a roguish question. “You’re pretty, but----” “Zen we go togezer!” “I’m afraid not.” “Pourquoi non?” “I’m hoping to meet someone.” She released me at once with a good-natured smile. “La! La! I hopes you find ’er.” She tripped away, turning before she was lost in the crowd to wave her hand. I told myself that her flower was the jonquil. It was one o’clock when, after wandering about, I found myself back at the same place. I could not sleep; my brain was too active with excitement. Instead of being sad because of Fiesole, I was unreasonably elated. I took a seat at a table on the pavement and ordered coffee and cognac. Every man and woman within sight was a lover, and I sat solitary. As the hour grew later men and women grew more frank in their embraces, and all with that naïve assumption of privacy which makes the Frenchman, even in his vices, seem so much a child. The sex-instinct beat about “the mountain”--the air quivered and pulsated. Girls rustled in the shadows. Lovers, chance-met, danced home together. Strange to say, I found nothing sinful in it--only romance. I had ceased to look beyond the immediate sensation. “Poor boy! You not find ’er?” I looked up; my lady of the jonquils was leaning over my shoulder. “No.” “Eh bien, peut-être, you find her to-morrow, _hein!_ If not, zere are ozers.” She waved her small gloved hands in a circle, bringing them back to include herself. She looked a good little soul, standing there so bravely disguising her weariness. “Tired?” “It ees nozing.” “Won’t you join me?” Immediately we were in sympathy. She owned me with a playfulness which had no hint of indelicacy. Drawing off her gloves, she rested her chin on her knitted fingers and regarded me laughingly with her world-wise eyes. She was scarcely more than half my years, I suppose. “Zere are ozers,” she repeated. “Not for me,” I said; “not to-night.” “Dieu! You are funny, my friend. You lofe like zat?” The waiter hovered nearer, flirting his napkin across the marble-tables. I beckoned; he dashed up like a hen to which I had scattered grain. “Croûte au pot?” “Bien, Monsieur.” “Filet aux truffes.”