“Have you ever seen anything drearier than a circus parade? One of those jokes that aren't funny.” “Justine, encore du vin,” called Henslowe. “So you know her name?” “I live here.... The Butte is the boss on the middle of the shield. It's the axle of the wheel. That's why it's so quiet, like the centre of a cyclone, of a vast whirling rotary circus parade!” Justine, with her red hands that had washed so many dishes off which other people had dined well, put down between them a scarlet langouste, of which claws and feelers sprawled over the tablecloth that already had a few purplish stains of wine. The sauce was yellow and fluffy like the breast of a canary bird. “D'you know,” said Andrews suddenly talking fast and excitedly while he brushed the straggling yellow hair off his forehead, “I'd almost be willing to be shot at the end of a year if I could live up here all that time with a piano and a million sheets of music paper...It would be worth it.” “But this is a place to come back to. Imagine coming back here after the highlands of Thibet, where you'd nearly got drowned and scalped and had made love to the daughter of an Afghan chief... who had red lips smeared with loukoumi so that the sweet taste stayed in your mouth.” Henslowe stroked softly his little brown mustache. “But what's the use of just seeing and feeling things if you can't express them?” “What's the use of living at all? For the fun of it, man; damn ends.” “But the only profound fun I ever have is that...” Andrews's voice broke. “O God, I would give up every joy in the world if I could turn out one page that I felt was adequate.... D'you know it's years since I've talked to anybody?” They both stared silently out of the window at the fog that was packed tightly against it like cotton wool, only softer, and a greenish-gold color. “The M.P.'s sure won't get us tonight,” said Henslowe, banging his fist jauntily on the table. “I've a great mind to go to Rue St. Anne and leave my card on the Provost Marshal.... God damn! D'you remember that man who took the bite out of our wine-bottle...He didn't give a hoot in hell, did he? Talk about expression. Why don't you express that? I think that's the turning point of your career. That's what made you come to Paris; you can't deny it.” They both laughed loudly rolling about on their chairs. Andrews caught glints of contagion in the pale violet eyes of the lame boy and in the dark eyes of the girl. “Let's tell them about it,” he said still laughing, with his face, bloodless after the months in hospital, suddenly flushed.