He sprang up from his seat, and started to and fro through his room, striding caged-lion fashion, and counting his steps, "One, two, three, four,"—up to sixty, which, he calculated, would make a minute. Every now and then he would halt, and draw a deep, loud sigh, and frantically crush his temples between the palms of his hands. Very silly and irrational conduct, to be sure; but thus it is that most impetuous, warm-blooded young fellows carry on, at this interesting tide in their affairs.
By and by he dropped into a chair again, and lighted a cigarette. He smoked without relish, simply for the sake of passing the time. As quickly as he consumed one cigarette he lighted another from its expiring sparks. Presently he counted the stumps. Ten. He guessed that it must now be pretty nearly four o'clock. He secretly thought that it was later; but his thought might be the offspring of his wish, and he said four, so as to be on the safe side and preclude the possibility of disappointment. He looked at his watch—which for a long while he had purposely abstained from doing. He looked at his watch. . . . Must he believe his eyesight? By all the furies! It was only half-past two.
"Oh, Lord! I can't stand this!" he cried. "I'd better go out for a walk."
He walked the streets for the rest of the afternoon. He walked directly across the city as far as the Pare Monceau; thence to the Arc de Triomphe; thence to the Trocadéro; thence, along the quays, to the Place de la Concorde; thence to the Invalides; thence, by a tortuous route, through narrow, crooked, picturesque streets, back to the Boulevard St.-Michel. A long, circuitous walk, as any one may see by glancing at a map of Paris. Also an interesting walk; but to its interest he was impervious. He walked at top-speed, eyes fixed straight ahead, glancing neither to the right nor to the left; again merely for the sake of killing time. The quantity of time thus disposed of was precisely two hours and forty minutes. It was now ten minutes after five o'clock.
He seated himself at a café table on the boulevard, and called for beer.
"Beer," he remarked to himself, "is a sedative. It will calm my nerves."
As he sipped his soothing-draught, he mused, "If only in this big city I knew somebody whom I might call upon, in whose society I might while away an hour or two! If only in this crowd, constantly passing and repassing on the sidewalk, I might meet an acquaintance, espy a friendly face! Yes, there's Palmer, to be sure. But Palmer isn't exciting enough; and, besides, I have no right to inflict myself upon him. Ah, Denise, Denise! Where is she now? What is she doing? What is she thinking about? Not about me; that's certain; I may make up my mind to that. Oh, Lord! Still a night and a day before I can see her!"
He emptied his glass, and ordered another.
At the table next to his a young lady was seated, alone. She wore a broad-brimmed straw hat; a very close-fitting gown of some dark
