They dined at a little restaurant on the Quai Voltaire and afterwards walked slowly towards the Place St. Michel, feeling the wine and the warmth of the food sending new vigor into their tired bodies. Andrews had his arm round her shoulder and they talked in low intimate voices, hardly moving their lips, looking long at the men and women they saw sitting twined in each other's arms on benches, at the couples of boys and girls that kept passing them, talking slowly and quietly, as they were, bodies pressed together as theirs were. “How many lovers there are,” said Andrews. “Are we lovers?” asked Jeanne with a curious little laugh. “I wonder.... Have you ever been crazily in love, Jeanne?” “I don't know. There was a boy in Laon named Marcelin. But I was a little fool then. The last news of him was from Verdun.” “Have you had many... like I am?” “How sentimental we are,” she cried laughing. “No. I wanted to know. I know so little of life,” said Andrews. “I have amused myself, as best I could,” said Jeanne in a serious tone. “But I am not frivolous.... There have been very few men I have liked.... So I have had few friends... do you want to call them lovers? But lovers are what married women have on the stage.... All that sort of thing is very silly.” “Not so very long ago,” said Andrews, “I used to dream of being romantically in love, with people climbing up the ivy on castle walls, and fiery kisses on balconies in the moonlight.” “Like at the Opera Comique,” cried Jeanne laughing. “That was all very silly. But even now, I want so much more of life than life can give.” They leaned over the parapet and listened to the hurrying swish of the river, now soft and now loud, where the reflections of the lights on the opposite bank writhed like golden snakes. Andrews noticed that there was someone beside them. The faint, greenish glow from the lamp on the quai enabled him to recognize the lame boy he had talked to months ago on the Butte. “I wonder if you'll remember me,” he said. “You are the American who was in the Restaurant, Place du Terte, I don't remember when, but it was long ago.” They shook hands. “But you are alone,” said Andrews. “Yes, I am always alone,” said the lame boy firmly. He held out his hand again. “Au revoir,” said Andrews. “Good luck!” said the lame boy. Andrews heard his crutch tapping on the pavement as he went away along the quai. “Jeanne,” said Andrews, suddenly, “you'll come home with me, won't you?” “But you have a friend living with you.” “He's gone to Brussels. He won't be back till tomorrow.” “I suppose one must pay for one's dinner,” said Jeanne maliciously. “Good God, no.” Andrews buried his face in his hands. The singsong of the river pouring through the bridges, filled his ears. He wanted desperately to cry. Bitter desire that was like hatred made his flesh tingle, made his hands ache to crush her hands in them. “Come along,” he said gruffly.