Abe North was still in the Ritz bar, where he had been since nine in the morning. When he arrived seeking sanctuary¹ the windows were open and great beams were busy at pulling up the dust from smoky carpets and cushions. Chasseurs tore through the corridors, liberated² and disembodied, moving for the moment in pure space. The sit-down bar for women, across from the bar proper, seemed very small — it was hard to imagine what throngs³ it could accommodate in the afternoon.

The famous Paul, the concessionaire, had not arrived, but Claude, who was checking stock, broke off his work with no improper⁴ surprise to make Abe a pick-me-up. Abe sat on a bench against a wall. After two drinks he began to feel better — so much better that he mounted to the barber’s shop and was shaved. When he returned to the bar Paul had arrived — in his custom-built motor, from which he had disembarked correctly at the Boulevard des Capucines. Paul liked Abe and came over to talk.

“I was supposed to ship home this morning,” Abe said. “I mean yesterday morning, or whatever this is.”

“Why din⁵ you?” asked Paul.

Abe considered, and happened finally to a reason: “I was reading a serial⁶ in Liberty and the next installment⁷ was due here in Paris — so if I’d sailed I’d have missed it — then I never would have read it.”

“It must be a very good story.”

“It’s a terr-r-rible story.”

Paul arose chuckling⁸ and paused, leaning on the back of a chair:

“If you really want to get off, Mr. North, there are friends of yours going to-morrow on the France — Mister what is this name — and Slim Pearson. Mister — I’ll think of it — tall with a new beard.”

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