Antoinette brought a bottle of cognac and two small glasses and sat down in an empty chair with her red hands crossed on her apron. Her eyes moved from Chrisfield to the Frenchman and back again. Chrisfield turned a little round in his chair and looked at the Frenchman, feeling in his eyes for a moment a glance of the man's yellowish-brown eyes. Andrews leaned back against the wall sipping his dark-colored wine, his eyes contracted dreamily, fixed on the shadow of the chandelier, which the cheap oil-lamp with its tin reflector cast on the peeling plaster of the wall opposite. Chrisfield punched him. “Wake up, Andy, are you asleep?” “No,” said Andy smiling. “Have a li'l mo' cognac.” Chrisfield poured out two more glasses unsteadily. His eyes were on Antoinette again. The faded purple frock was hooked at the neck. The first three hooks were undone revealing a V-shape of golden brown skin and a bit of whitish underwear. “Say, Andy,” he said, putting his arm round his friend's neck and talking into his ear, “talk up to her for me, will yer, Andy?... Ah won't let that goddam frog get her, no, I won't, by Gawd. Talk up to her for me, Andy.” Andrews laughed. “I'll try,” he said. “But there's always the Queen of Sheba, Chris.” “Antoinette, j'ai un ami,” started Andrews, making a gesture with a long dirty hand towards Chris. Antoinette showed her bad teeth in a smile. “Joli garcon,” said Andrews. Antoinette's face became impassive and beautiful again. Chrisfield leaned back in his chair with an empty glass in his hand and watched his friend admiringly. “Antoinette, mon ami vous... vous admire,” said Andrews in a courtly voice. A woman put her head in the door. It was the same face and hair as Antoinette's, ten years older, only the skin, instead of being golden brown, was sallow and wrinkled. “Viens,” said the woman in a shrill voice. Antoinette got up, brushed heavily against Chrisfield's leg as she passed him and disappeared. The Frenchman walked across the room from his corner, saluted gravely and went out. Chrisfield jumped to his feet. The room was like a white box reeling about him. “That frog's gone after her,” he shouted. “No, he ain't, Chris,” cried someone from the next table. “Sit tight, ole boy. We're bettin' on yer.” “Yes, sit down and have a drink, Chris,” said Andy. “I've got to have somethin' more to drink. I haven't had a thing to drink all the evening.” He pulled him back into his chair. Chrisfield tried to get up again. Andrews hung on him so that the chair upset. Then both sprawled on the red tiles of the floor. “The house is pinched!” said a voice. Chrisfield saw Judkins standing over him, a grin on his large red face. He got to his feet and sat sulkily in his chair again. Andrews was already sitting opposite him, looking impassive as ever. The tables were full now. Someone was singing in a droning voice.