“Et celui-la! O il etait rigolo....” She burst out laughing; her head, encased in a little round black hat, bobbed up and down under the umbrella. Andrews laughed too. Crossing the Boulevard St. Germain, a taxi nearly ran them down and splashed a great wave of mud over them. She clutched his arm and then stood roaring with laughter. “O quelle horreur! Quelle horreur!” she kept exclaiming. Andrews laughed and laughed. “But hold the umbrella over us.... You're letting the rain in on my best hat,” she said again. “Your name is Jeanne,” said Andrews. “Impertinent! You heard my brother call me that.... He went back to the front that night, poor little chap.... He's only nineteen ... he's very clever.... O, how happy I am now that the war's over.” “You are older than he?” “Two years.... I am the head of the family.... It is a dignified position.” “Have you always lived in Paris?” “No, we are from Laon.... It's the war.” “Refugees?” “Don't call us that.... We work.” Andrews laughed. “Are you going far?” she asked peering in his face. “No, I live up here.... My name is the same as yours.” “Jean? How funny!” “Where are you going?” “Rue Descartes.... Behind St. Etienne.” “I live near you.” “But you mustn't come. The concierge is a tigress.... Etienne calls her Mme. Clemenceau.” “Who? The saint?” “No, you silly--my brother. He is a socialist. He's a typesetter at l'Humanite.” “Really? I often read l'Humanite.” “Poor boy, he used to swear he'd never go in the army. He thought of going to America.” “That wouldn't do him any good now,” said Andrews bitterly. “What do you do?” “I?” a gruff bitterness came into her voice. “Why should I tell you? I work at a dressmaker's.” “Like Louise?” “You've heard Louise? Oh, how I cried.” “Why did it make you sad?” “Oh, I don't know.... But I'm learning stenography.... But here we are!” The great bulk of the Pantheon stood up dimly through the rain beside them. In front the tower of St. Etienne-du-Mont was just visible. The rain roared about them. “Oh, how wet I am!” said Jeanne. “Look, they are giving Louise day after tomorrow at the Opera Comique.... Won't you come; with me?” “No, I should cry too much.” “I'll cry too.” “But it's not...” “Cest l'armistice,” interrupted Andrews. They both laughed! “All right! Meet me at the cafe at the end of the Boul' Mich' at a quarter past seven.... But you probably won't come.” “I swear I will,” cried Andrews eagerly. “We'll see!” She darted away down the street beside St. Etienne-du-Mont. Andrews was left alone amid the seethe of the rain and the tumultuous gurgle of water-spouts. He felt calm and tired. When he got to his room, he found he had no matches in his pocket. No light came from the window through which he could hear the hissing clamor of the rain in the court. He stumbled over a chair. “Are you drunk?” came Walters's voice swathed in bedclothes. “There are matches on the table.” “But where the hell's the table?”