“Salut,” said Henslowe turning round and elevating his glass. “Nous rions parceque nous sommes gris de vin gris.” Then he told them about the man who ate glass. He got to his feet and recounted slowly in his drawling voice, with gestures. Justine stood by with a dish full of stuffed tomatoes of which the red skins showed vaguely through a mantle of dark brown sauce. When she smiled her cheeks puffed out and gave her face a little of the look of a white cat's. “And you live here?” asked Andrews after they had all laughed. “Always. It is not often that I go down to town.... It's so difficult.... I have a withered leg.” He smiled brilliantly like a child telling about a new toy. “And you?” “How could I be anywhere else?” answered the girl. “It's a misfortune, but there it is.” She tapped with the crutch on the floor, making a sound like someone walking with it. The boy laughed and tightened his arm round her shoulder. “I should like to live here,” said Andrews simply. “Why don't you?” “But don't you see he's a soldier,” whispered the girl hurriedly. A frown wrinkled the boy's forehead. “Well, it wasn't by choice, I suppose,” he said. Andrews was silent. Unaccountable shame took possession of him before these people who had never been soldiers, who would never be soldiers. “The Greeks used to say,” he said bitterly, using as phrase that had been a long time on his mind, “that when a man became a slave, on the first day he lost one-half of his virtue.” “When a man becomes a slave,” repeated the lame boy softly, “on the first day he loses one-half of his virtue.” “What's the use of virtue? It is love you need,” said the girl. “I've eaten your tomato, friend Andrews,” said Henslowe. “Justine will get us some more.” He poured out the last of the wine that half filled each of the glasses with its thin sparkle, the color of red currants. Outside the fog had blotted everything out in even darkness which grew vaguely yellow and red near the sparsely scattered street lamps. Andrews and Henslowe felt their way blindly down the long gleaming flights of steps that led from the quiet darkness of the Butte towards the confused lights and noises of more crowded streets. The fog caught in their throats and tingled in their noses and brushed against their cheeks like moist hands. “Why did we go away from that restaurant? I'd like to have talked to those people some more,” said Andrews. “We haven't had any coffee either.... But, man, we're in Paris. We're not going to be here long. We can't afford to stay all the time in one place.... It's nearly closing time already....” “The boy was a painter. He said he lived by making toys; he whittles out wooden elephants and camels for Noah's Arks.... Did you hear that?” They were walking fast down a straight, sloping street. Below them already appeared the golden glare of a boulevard.