Outside the wind sighed past the window.
Snatches of soldiers' songs drifted in; the little room seemed to lift us and float with us through the night and through the years, past many memories and half-forgotten things.
It was a strange feeling.
Time seemed to have ceased to flow—it was no longer a river that came from the darkness and passed out into darkness again—it was a lake in which life was noiselessly mirrored.
I held up my glass in my hand.
The rum glowed.
I thought of the account I had drawn up that morning in the workshop.
I had been depressed then; I was so no longer.
I looked at Koster.
I heard him talking with the girl; but I did not attend to their words.
I felt the first soft glow of intoxication that makes the blood warmer and spreads an illusion of adventure over uncertainty.
Outside Lenz and Binding were singing the song of the Argonnerwald.
Beside me the unknown girl was talking—she spoke softly and slowly in that deep, exciting, slightly hoarse voice.
I emptied my glass.
The other two came in again.
They had sobered a little in the open air.
The party broke up.
I helped the girl into her coat.
She was standing immediately in front of me, lithely moving her shoulders to receive the cloak, her head thrown back and turned aside, her lips slightly open with a smile that was meant for no one directed to the ceiling.
I lowered the cloak an instant.
Where had my eyes been all this time?
I suddenly understood Lenz's enthusiasm.
She turned half toward me inquiringly.
Quickly I raised the cloak again and glanced across at Binding who was standing by the table, cherry-red and still with a rather glazed look in his eye.
"Do you think he is fit to drive?" I asked.
"I think so."
I looked at her steadily.
"If he is not quite safe, one of us could go with you."
She took out her powder compact and opened it.
"It will be all right," said she. "He drives much better when he has had something to drink."
"Better, but not so carefully perhaps," I replied.
She looked at me over the top of her little mirror.
"Let's hope it will be all right," I said.
I was overdoing it a bit, for Binding was standing quite tolerably on his pins.
But I wanted to do something so that she would not just vanish entirely.
"Can I ring you in the morning perhaps, and hear how it went?" I asked.
She did not reply at once.
"I feel we are partly to blame with all our drinking," I persisted. "Me particularly, with my birthday rum."
She laughed.
"All right, if you like. Western 2796."
I made a note of the number immediately we were outside.
We watched Binding drive off and had a last glass.
Then we let Karl off the leash.
He swept along through the light March mist, the wind was strong and our breathing quick; the city came toward us, looming fiery in the darkness, and at last there rose out of the gloom, like a brilliantly lighted gay liner,
"The Bar."
We brought Karl alongside and dropped anchor.
Golden flowed the cognac, the gin gleamed like aquamarine and the rum was life itself.
Upright we sat on the high bar stools; the music chattered, the pulse of life was clear and strong; it beat bravely in our hearts; the cheerlessness of the beastly furnished rooms that awaited us, the hopelessness of existence, was forgotten; the counter of
"The Bar" was the Captain's bridge of the Ship of Life, and we were set once more for the open sea.
Chapter II