“I hate it.... It's dirty and cold and miserable in winter,” went on Rosaline. “I'd like to see them at the bottom of the river, all these barges.... And Paris women, did you have a good time with them?” “I only knew one. I go very little with women.” “All the same, love's nice, isn't it?” They were sitting on the rail at the bow of the barge. Rosaline had sidled up so that her leg touched Andrews's leg along its whole length. The memory of Genevieve Rod became more and more vivid in his mind. He kept thinking of things she had said, of the intonations of her voice, of the blundering way she poured tea, and of her pale-brown eyes wide open on the world, like the eyes of a woman in an encaustic painting from a tomb in the Fayoum. “Mother's talking to the old woman at the Creamery. They're great friends. She won't be home for two hours yet,” said Rosaline. “She's bringing my clothes, isn't she?” “But you're all right as you are.” “But they're your father's.” “What does that matter?” “I must go back to Paris soon. There is somebody I must see in Paris.” “A woman?” Andrews nodded. “But it's not so bad, this life on the barge. I'm just lonesome and sick of the old people. That's why I talk nastily about it.... We could have good times together if you stayed with us a little.” She leaned her head on his shoulder and put a hand awkwardly on his bare forearm. “How cold these Americans are!” she muttered, giggling drowsily. Andrews felt her hair tickle his cheek. “No, it's not a bad life on the barge, honestly. The only thing is, there's nothing but old people on the river. It isn't life to be always with old people.... I want to have a good time.” She pressed her cheek against his. He could feel her breath heavy in his face. “After all, it's lovely in summer to drowse on the deck that's all warm with the sun, and see the trees and the fields and the little houses slipping by on either side.... If there weren't so many old people.... All the boys go away to the cities.... I hate old people; they're so dirty and slow. We mustn't waste our youth, must we?” Andrews got to his feet. “What's the matter?” she cried sharply. “Rosaline,” Andrews said in a low, soft voice, “I can only think of going to Paris.” “Oh, the Paris woman,” said Rosaline scornfully. “But what does that matter? She isn't here now.” “I don't know.... Perhaps I shall never see her again anyway,” said Andrews. “You're a fool. You must amuse yourself when you can in this life. And you a deserter.... Why, they may catch you and shoot you any time.” “Oh, I know, you're right. You're right. But I'm not made like that, that's all.” “She must be very good to you, your little Paris girl.” “I've never touched her.” Rosaline threw her head back and laughed raspingly. “But you aren't sick, are you?” she cried. “Probably I remember too vividly, that's all.... Anyway, I'm a fool, Rosaline, because you're a nice girl.”