Outside the Hotel Crillon were many limousines, painted olive-drab, with numbers in white letters on the doors; the drivers, men with their olive-drab coat collars turned up round their red faces, stood in groups under the portico. Andrews passed the sentry and went through the revolving doors into the lobby, which was vividly familiar. It had the smell he remembered having smelt in the lobbies of New York hotels,--a smell of cigar smoke and furniture polish. On one side a door led to a big dining room where many men and women were having tea, from which came a smell of pastry and rich food. On the expanse of red carpet in front of him officers and civilians stood in groups talking in low voices. There was a sound of jingling spurs and jingling dishes from the restaurant, and near where Andrews stood shifting his weight from one foot to the other, sprawled in a leather chair a fat man with a black felt hat over his eyes and a large watch chain dangling limply over his bulbous paunch. He cleared his throat occasionally with a rasping noise and spat loudly into the spittoon beside him. At last Andrews caught sight of Aubrey, who was dapper with white cheeks and tortoise shell glasses. “Come along,” he said, seizing Andrews by the arm. “You are late.” Then, he went on, whispering in Andrews's ear as they went out through the revolving doors: “Great things happened in the Conference today.... I can tell you that, old man.” They crossed the bridge towards the portico of the Chamber of Deputies with its high pediment and its grey columns. Down the river they could see faintly the Eiffel Tower with a drift of mist athwart it, like a section of spider web spun between the city and the clouds. “Do we have to go to see these people, Aubrey?” “Yes, you can't back out now. Genevieve Rod wants to know about American music.” “But what on earth can I tell her about American music?” “Wasn't there a man named MacDowell who went mad or something?” Andrews laughed. “But you know I haven't any social graces.... I suppose I'll have to say I think Foch is a little tin god.” “You needn't say anything if you don't want to.... They're very advanced, anyway.” “Oh, rats!” They were going up a brown-carpeted stair that had engravings on the landings, where there was a faint smell of stale food and dustpans. At the top landing Aubrey rang the bell at a varnished door. In a moment a girl opened it. She had a cigarette in her hand, her face was pale under a mass of reddish-chestnut hair, her eyes very large, a pale brown, as large as the eyes of women in those paintings of Artemisias and Berenikes found in tombs in the Fayum. She wore a plain black dress. “Enfin!” she said, and held out her hand to Aubrey. “There's my friend Andrews.” She held out her hand to him absently, still looking at Aubrey.