When he sat up, he noticed that through a break in the hedge beyond the slender black trunks of the locusts, he could see rising above the trees the extinguisher-shaped roof of the tower of Genevieve Rod's house. He remembered the day he had first seen Genevieve, and the boyish awkwardness with which she poured tea. Would he and Genevieve ever find a moment of real contact? All at once a bitter thought came to him. “Or is it that she wants a tame pianist as an ornament to a clever young woman's drawing room?” He jumped to his feet and started walking fast towards the town again. He would go to see her at once and settle all that forever. The village clock had begun to strike; the clear notes vibrated crisply across the fields: ten. Walking back to the village he began to think of money. His room was twenty francs a week. He had in his purse a hundred and twenty-four francs. After fishing in all his pockets for silver, he found three francs and a half more. A hundred and twenty-seven francs fifty. If he could live on forty francs a week, he would have three weeks in which to work on the “Body and Soul of John Brown.” Only three weeks; and then he must find work. In any case he would write Henslowe to send him money if he had any; this was no time for delicacy; everything depended on his having money. And he swore to himself that he would work for three weeks, that he would throw the idea that flamed within him into shape on paper, whatever happened. He racked his brains to think of someone in America he could write to for money, A ghastly sense of solitude possessed him. And would Genevieve fail him too? Genevieve was coming out by the front door of the house when he reached the carriage gate beside the road. She ran to meet him. “Good morning. I was on my way to fetch you.” She seized his hand and pressed it hard. “How sweet of you!” “But, Jean, you're not coming from the village.” “I've been walking.” “How early you must get up!” “You see, the sun rises just opposite my window, and shines in on my bed. That makes me get up early.” She pushed him in the door ahead of her. They went through the hall to a long high room that had a grand piano and many old high-backed chairs, and in front of the French windows that opened on the garden, a round table of black mahogany littered with books. Two tall girls in muslin dresses stood beside the piano. “These are my cousins.... Here he is at last. Monsieur Andrews, ma cousine Berthe et ma cousine Jeanne. Now you've got to play to us; we are bored to death with everything we know.” “All right.... But I have a great deal to talk to you about later,” said Andrews in a low voice. Genevieve nodded understandingly. “Why don't you play us La Reine de Saba, Jean?” “Oh, do play that,” twittered the cousins. “If you don't mind, I'd rather play some Bach.” “There's a lot of Bach in that chest in the corner,” cried Genevieve. “It's ridiculous; everything in the house is jammed with music.”