They leaned over the chest together, so that Andrews felt her hair brush against his cheek, and the smell of her hair in his nostrils. The cousins remained by the piano. “I must talk to you alone soon,” whispered Andrews. “All right,” she said, her face reddening as she leaned over the chest. On top of the music was a revolver. “Look out, it's loaded,” she said, when he picked it up. He looked at her inquiringly. “I have another in my room. You see Mother and I are often alone here, and then, I like firearms. Don't you?” “I hate them,” muttered Andrews. “Here's tons of Bach.” “Fine.... Look, Genevieve,” he said suddenly, “lend me that revolver for a few days. I'll tell you why I want it later.” “Certainly. Be careful, because it's loaded,” she said in an offhand manner, walking over to the piano with two volumes under each arm. Andrews closed the chest and followed her, suddenly bubbling with gaiety. He opened a volume haphazard. “To a friend to dissuade him from starting on a journey,” he read. “Oh, I used to know that.” He began to play, putting boisterous vigor into the tunes. In a pianissimo passage he heard one cousin whisper to the other: “Qu'il a l'air interessant.” “Farouche, n'est-ce pas? Genre revolutionnaire,” answered the other cousin, tittering. Then he noticed that Mme. Rod was smiling at him. He got to his feet. “Mais ne vous derangez pas,” she said. A man with white flannel trousers and tennis shoes and a man in black with a pointed grey beard and amused grey eyes had come into the room, followed by a stout woman in hat and veil, with long white cotton gloves on her arms. Introductions were made. Andrews's spirits began to ebb. All these people were making strong the barrier between him and Genevieve. Whenever he looked at her, some well-dressed person stepped in front of her with a gesture of politeness. He felt caught in a ring of well-dressed conventions that danced about him with grotesque gestures of politeness. All through lunch he had a crazy desire to jump to his feet and shout: “Look at me; I'm a deserter. I'm under the wheels of your system. If your system doesn't succeed in killing me, it will be that much weaker, it will have less strength to kill others.” There was talk about his demobilization, and his music, and the Schola Cantorum. He felt he was being exhibited. “But they don't know what they're exhibiting,” he said to himself with a certain bitter joy. After lunch they went out into the grape arbor, where coffee was brought. Andrews sat silent, not listening to the talk, which was about Empire furniture and the new taxes, staring up into the broad sun-splotched leaves of the grape vines, remembering how the sun and shade had danced about Genevieve's hair when they had been in the arbor alone the day before, turning it all to red flame. Today she sat in shadow, and her hair was rusty and dull. Time dragged by very slowly. At last Genevieve got to her feet.