Chapter XXII

           

           IsettleddowninParisandbegantowriteaplay.Iledaveryregularlife,workinginthemorning,andintheafternoonloungingaboutthegardensoftheLuxembourgorsaunteringthroughthestreets.IspentlonghoursintheLouvre,themostfriendlyofallgalleriesandthemostconvenientformeditation;oridledonthequays,fingeringsecond-handbooksthatInevermeanttobuy.Ireadapagehereandthere,andmadeacquaintancewithagreatmanyauthorswhomIwascontenttoknowthusdesultorily.IntheeveningsIwenttoseemyfriends.IlookedinoftenontheStroeves,andsometimessharedtheirmodestfare.DirkStroeveflatteredhimselfonhisskillincookingItaliandishes,andIconfessthathisspaghettiwereverymuchbetterthanhispictures.ItwasadinnerforaKingwhenhebroughtinahugedishofit,succulentwithtomatoes,andweateittogetherwiththegoodhouseholdbreadandabottleofredwine.IgrewmoreintimatewithBlancheStroeve,andIthink,becauseIwasEnglishandsheknewfewEnglishpeople,shewasgladtoseeme.Shewaspleasantandsimple,butsheremainedalwaysrathersilent,andIknewnotwhy,gavemetheimpressionthatshewasconcealingsomething.ButIthoughtthatwasperhapsnomorethananaturalreserveaccentuatedbytheverbosefranknessofherhusband.Dirkneverconcealedanything.Hediscussedthemostintimatematterswithacompletelackofself-consciousness.

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