with their tails between their legs. I've seen too much of Bad not to know that Good can use a slung-shot when need be.
Rosalie stirred up an omelet, and we ate it with a bit of salad, some brioche and a bottle of beer. You'd have thought we were starting out for a joy ride and to do the town!
Then, our little supper finished and the clocks striking the half-hour—half-past eleven—I got up quickly.
"I'm off!" said I. "Au 'voir, my dear!"
Rosalie's face went white.
"Not—yet!" says she falteringly.
"Time's up. Be a good girl, and don't get nervous and blue."
She threw herself into my arms. I kissed her, then turned to the door and went out and down the dark stairs into the street. The last I saw of Rosalie she was standing in the middle of the room, staring with wide eyes and pale cheeks.
Once in the street, I'm ashamed to say I soon forgot—or, at least, put out of my mind—Rosalie sobbing on my shoulder and the look of her face when the door closed between us. The street was always a tonic for me—just what drink is to some and women to others, and the sea or the woods or the road to still others. Whenever I've been down I've slipped into the street, like an ash-cat, and there I've gradually bucked up and taken a fresh grip and got a new interest in things. The look of the houses and the guess at what's going on behind their walls, and the glimpse at the faces that pass you—let me tell you, my friend, that's my wine! It's to me what
