Robert Stonehouse stared heavily in front of him.  He had drunk—­not much, but too much.  He was not accustomed to drinking.  The very austerity of his life betrayed him.  These people too—­these women—­half-naked with their feverish, restless eyes—­these men with their air of cynical and weary knowledge—­were getting on his nerves.  He wished he had not come.  He wished he had not reminded her of that accursed circus, for it had involved remembering.  He had called up a little old tune that would not be easily forgotten, that would go on grinding itself round and round inside his brain, and when he had chased it out would come back, popping out at him, bringing other small, pale ghosts to bear it company.  He could see Cosgrave and himself—­the little boys with bright eyes—­and feel the reverberations of their astonishment, their incredulous delight.  For a moment they had held fast to the tail-end of the jolly marching procession, and then it had been ripped out of their feeble hands.  But the procession went on.  It was always there, round the corner, with its music and fluttering lights, and if one was infirm of purpose like Cosgrave, or like a certain James Stonehouse, one ran to meet it, flung oneself into it, not counting the cost, lying and stealing.

He heard her voice again and pressed his hands to his hot eyes like a man struggling back out of a deep sleep.

“Where are they all now? Dieu sait.  Monsieur Georges ’e die.  As for me I go ’ome to ze old Folies Bergeres, and for six months I wait—­a leetle ugly nobody with long thin legs dancing with ten other ugly leetle nobodies with all sorts of legs be’ind La Jolleta.  You don’t remember ’er, ’hein!  Ah, c’est vieux jeu ca and you are all too young, Mesdames et Messieurs.  She was ze passion of your grandpapas.  God knows why.  Why do you all love me, hein? Une Mystere.  Well, she was ver’ old then, but she ’ave ze good ’ealth and ze thick skin of ze rhinoceros.  And some’ow no one ’ave ze ’eart to tell ’er.  It become a sort of joke—­’ow long she keep going—­ze Boulevards make bets about it.  But for me it is no joke.  I am in a ’urry, moi, and I know I can do better than she did ever—­I ’ave something—­’ere—­’ere—­that she never ’ave.  And so one night I put a leetle pinch of something that a good friend of mine give me in La Jolleta’s champagne what she drink before she dance, and when ze call-boy come she lie there on ze sofa—­’er mouth open—­comme ca—­snoring—­like a pink elephant asleep—­’ow you say—­squiffy—­dead to ze world.  Ze manager ’e tear ’is ’air out, and then I come and show ’im and ’e let me go on instead because there is no one else.  And the people boo and shriek at me, they are so angry and I make ze long nose at them all—­and presently they laugh and laugh.”

They could see her.  It wouldn’t have seemed even impudent.  Even then she had been too sure of herself.