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