Andrews looked up suddenly. An M. P. with a raw-looking face in which was a long sharp nose, had come up to him. Andrews buttoned up his overcoat and said nothing. “Ye can't hang around here this way,” the M. P. called after him. Andrews flushed and walked away without turning his head. He was stinging with humiliation; an angry voice inside him kept telling him that he was a coward, that he should make some futile gesture of protest. Grotesque pictures of revolt flamed through his mind, until he remembered that when he was very small, the same tumultuous pride had seethed and ached in him whenever he had been reproved by an older person. Helpless despair fluttered about within him like a bird beating against the wires of a cage. Was there no outlet, no gesture of expression, would he have to go on this way day after day, swallowing the bitter gall of indignation, that every new symbol of his slavery brought to his lips? He was walking in an agitated way across the Jardin des Tuileries, full of little children and women with dogs on leashes and nursemaids with starched white caps, when he met Genevieve Rod and her mother. Genevieve was dressed in pearl grey, with an elegance a little too fashionable to please Andrews. Mme. Rod wore black. In front of them a black and tan terrier ran from one side to the other, on nervous little legs that trembled like steel springs. “Isn't it lovely this morning?” cried Genevieve. “I didn't know you had a dog.” “Oh, we never go out without Santo, a protection to two lone women, you know,” said Mme. Rod, laughing. “Viens, Santo, dis bonjour au Monsieur.” “He usually lives at Poissac,” said Genevieve. The little dog barked furiously at Andrews, a shrill bark like a child squalling. “He knows he ought to be suspicious of soldiers.... I imagine most soldiers would change with him if they had a chance.... Viens Santo, viens Santo.... Will you change lives with me, Santo?” “You look as if you'd been quarrelling with somebody,” said Genevieve Rod lightly. “I have, with myself.... I'm going to write a book on slave psychology. It would be very amusing,” said Andrews in a gruff, breathless voice. “But we must hurry, dear, or we'll be late to the tailor's,” said Mme. Rod. She held out her black-gloved hand to Andrews. “We'll be in at tea time this afternoon. You might play me some more of the 'Queen of Sheba,'” said Genevieve. “I'm afraid I shan't be able to, but you never can tell.... Thank you.”