The hand with
the washers sank gently to rest on his knee, and he sighed as he ceased
stirring, and looked absently down the garage, his mystical cloak of
bone and skin shrouding his thoughts. Idle men all down the garage hung
about the cars, each holding within him some private affection, some
close hope, something which sent a spurt of dubious song out of his
mouth, or his eyes, wandering sightless, down the shed.
The tank, resenting her treatment, overflowed violently and drenched her
skirt and feet.
"Are you ready, mademoiselle?"
"Coming. Where are the tubes?"
"I have them."
She drove through the yard, down the street, and hurried over the bridge
to her room. Nightgown, toothbrush, comb, sponge, and powder--hating
every hour of the days and nights her preparations meant.
At the Hotel de l'Europe, three men waited for her with frowns, loaded
with plaid rugs, mufflers, black bags, and gaping baskets of food, from
which protruded bottles of wine. It was, then, to be one of those days
when they lunched by the wayside in the bitter cold.
She drew up beside them. A huge man with an unclean bearskin coat and
flaccid red cheeks told her she was very late. She listened, apologising,
but intent only on her question.
"And could you tell me--(I'm so dreadfully sorry, but they only told me
very late at the garage)--and would you mind telling me which day you
expect to get back?"
He turned to the others.
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