“John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave, But his soul goes marching on.” The lindens were in bloom. From a tree beside the house great gusts of fragrance, heavy as incense, came in through the open window. Andrews lay across the table with his eyes closed and his cheek in a mass of ruled papers. He was very tired. The first movement of the “Soul and Body of John Brown” was down on paper. The village clock struck two. He got to his feet and stood a moment looking absently out of the window. It was a sultry afternoon of swollen clouds that hung low over the river. The windmill on the hilltop opposite was motionless. He seemed to hear Genevieve's voice the last time he had seen her, so long ago. “You would have been a great composer.” He walked over to the table and turned over some sheets without looking at them. “Would have been!” He shrugged his shoulders. So you couldn't be a great composer and a deserter too in the year 1919. Probably Genevieve was right. But he must have something to eat. “But how late it is,” expostulated Madame Boncour, when he asked for lunch. “I know it's very late. I have just finished a third of the work I'm doing. “And do you get paid a great deal, when that is finished?” asked Madame Boncour, the dimples appearing in her broad cheeks. “Some day, perhaps.” “You will be lonely now that the Rods have left.” “Have they left?” “Didn't you know? Didn't you go to say goodby? They've gone to the seashore.... But I'll make you a little omelette.” “Thank you.” When Madame Boncour cams back with the omelette and fried potatoes, she said to him in a mysterious voice: “You didn't go to see the Rods as often these last weeks.” “No.” Madame Boncour stood staring at him, with her red arms folded round her breasts, shaking her head. When he got up to go upstairs again, she suddenly shouted: “And when are you going to pay me? It's two weeks since you have paid me.” “But, Madame Boncour, I told you I had no money. If you wait a day or two, I'm sure to get some in the mail. It can't be more than a day or two.” “I've heard that story before.” “I've even tried to get work at several farms round here.” Madame Boncour threw back her head and laughed, showing the blackened teeth of her lower jaw. “Look here,” she said at length, “after this week, it's finished. You either pay me, or...And I sleep very lightly, Monsieur.” Her voice took on suddenly its usual sleek singsong tone. Andrews broke away and ran upstairs to his room. “I must fly the coop tonight,” he said to himself. But suppose then letters came with money the next day. He writhed in indecision all the afternoon. That evening he took a long walk. In passing the Rods' house he saw that the shutters were closed. It gave him a sort of relief to know that Genevieve no longer lived near him. His solitude was complete, now.