At a concert at the Salle Gaveau the day before he had heard Debussy's Nocturnes and Les Sirenes. Rhythms from them were the warp of all his thoughts. Against the background of the grey street and the brownish fog that hung a veil at the end of every vista he began to imagine rhythms of his own, modulations and phrases that grew brilliant and faded, that flapped for a while like gaudy banners above his head through the clatter of the street. He noticed that he was passing a long building with blank rows of windows, at the central door of which stood groups of American soldiers smoking. Unconsciously he hastened his steps, for fear of meeting an officer he would have to salute. He passed the men without looking at them. A voice detained him. “Say, Andrews.” When he turned he saw that a short man with curly hair, whose face, though familiar, he could not place, had left the group at the door and was coming towards him. “Hello, Andrews.... Your name's Andrews, ain't it?” “Yes.” Andrews shook his hand, trying to remember. “I'm Fuselli.... Remember? Last time I saw you you was goin' up to the lines on a train with Chrisfield.... Chris we used to call him.... At Cosne, don't you remember?” “Of course I do.” “Well, what's happened to Chris?” “He's a corporal now,” said Andrews. “Gee he is.... I'll be goddamned.... They was goin' to make me a corporal once.” Fuselli wore stained olive-drab breeches and badly rolled puttees; his shirt was open at the neck. From his blue denim jacket came a smell of stale grease that Andrews recognised; the smell of army kitchens. He had a momentary recollection of standing in line cold dark mornings and of the sound the food made slopping into mess kits. “Why didn't they make you a corporal, Fuselli?” Andrcws said, after a pause, in a constrained voice. “Hell, I got in wrong, I suppose.” They were leaning against the dusty house wall. Andrews looked at his feet. The mud of the pavement, splashing up on the wall, made an even dado along the bottom, on which Andrews scraped the toe of his shoe up and down. “Well, how's everything?” Andrews asked looking up suddenly. “I've been in a labor battalion. That's how everything is.” “God, that's tough luck!” Andrews wanted to go on. He had a sudden fear that he would be late. But he did not know how to break away. “I got sick,” said Fuselli grinning. “I guess I am yet, G. O. 42. It's a hell of a note the way they treat a feller... like he was lower than the dirt.” “Were you at Cosne all the time? That's damned rough luck, Fuselli.” “Cosne sure is a hell of a hole.... I guess you saw a lot of fighting. God! you must have been glad not to be in the goddam medics.” “I don't know that I'm glad I saw fighting.... Oh, yes, I suppose I am.” “You see, I had it a hell of a time before they found out. Courtmartial was damn stiff... after the armistice too.... Oh, God! why can't they let a feller go home?”