...............If I were here to stay
S ince the arrival of the music she had lived in a turmoil of appreciation mingled with rapture. Something awful must have happened to make him return to this disgusting Montmartre but he was coming back and that was wonderful! It had been lonely without him. All morning she had fretted in her lodge, unable to read the newspaper or arrange her beads, peeping out of the window every few minutes. “Now at last he was here!” “Monsieur!” she repeated as the fiacre slowed down to a hall. “How are you Monsieur? The studio’s just like you felt it. I started dangling and the place is nice and….” S he stopped short. S omething was wrong. He looked the same, yet he didn’t. His eyes! That’s it. They were bigger, darker, not gay and boyish any more. “You feel all right?” H e gave her a warm, sad smile, as she dance on. “Y