Andrews went on talking, almost to himself. “What a wonderful life that would be to live up here in a small room that would overlook the great rosy grey expanse of the city, to have some absurd work like that to live on, and to spend all your spare time working and going to concerts.... A quiet mellow existence.... Think of my life beside it. Slaving in that iron, metallic, brazen New York to write ineptitudes about music in the Sunday paper. God! And this.” They were sitting down at a table in a noisy cafe, full of yellow light flashing in eyes and on glasses and bottles, of red lips crushed against the thin hard rims of glasses. “Wouldn't you like to just rip it off?” Andrews jerked at his tunic with both hands where it bulged out over his chest. “Oh, I'd like to make the buttons fly all over the cafe, smashing the liqueur glasses, snapping in the faces of all those dandified French officers who look so proud of themselves that they survived long enough to be victorious.” “The coffee's famous here,” said Henslowe. “The only place I ever had it better was at a bistro in Nice on this last permission.” “Somewhere else again!” “That's it.... For ever and ever, somewhere else! Let's have some prunelle. Before the war prunelle.” The waiter was a solemn man, with a beard cut like a prime minister's. He came with the bottle held out before him, religiously lifted. His lips pursed with an air of intense application, while he poured the white glinting liquid into the glasses. When he had finished he held the bottle upside down with a tragic gesture; not a drop came out. “It is the end of the good old times,” he said. “Damnation to the good old times,” said Henslowe. “Here's to the good old new roughhousy circus parades.” “I wonder how many people they are good for, those circus parades of yours,” said Andrews. “Where are you going to spend the night?” said Henslowe. “I don't know.... I suppose I can find a hotel or something.” “Why don't you come with me and see Berthe; she probably has friends.” “I want to wander about alone, not that I scorn Berthe's friends,” said Andrews.... “But I am so greedy for solitude.”