, and let me see you home.
You're sure you won't have anything?'

I shook my head, wishing that he would not drink so much. I thought it
could not be good for his nerves.

'Been in Paris long?' he asked me, with a slightly confused utterance.
'Staying in this quarter? Many English and Americans here.'

Then, in setting down the glass, he upset it, and it smashed on the
pavement like the first one.

'Damn!' he exclaimed, staring forlornly at the broken glass, as if in the
presence of some irreparable misfortune. And before I could put in a
word, he turned to me with a silly smile, and approaching his face to
mine till his hat touched the brim of my hat, he said thickly: 'After
all, you know, I'm the greatish pianist in the world.'

The truth struck me like a blow. In my amazing ignorance of certain
aspects of life I had not suspected it. Diaz was drunk. The ignominy of
it! The tragedy of it! He was drunk. He had fallen to the beast. I drew
back from that hot, reeking face.

'You don't think I am?' he muttered. 'You think young What's-his-name can
play Ch--Chopin better than me? Is that it?'

I wanted to run away, to cease to exist, to hide with my shame in some
deep abyss. And there I was on the boulevard, next to this animal,
sharing his table and the degradation! And I could not move. There are
people so gifted that in a dilemma they always know exactly the wisest
course to adopt. But I did not know. This part of my story gives me
infinite pain to write, and yet I must write it, though I cannot persuade
myself to write it in full; the details would be too repulsive.
Nevertheless, forget not that I lived it.

He put his face to mine again, and began to stammer something, and I
drew away.

'You are ashamed of me, madam,' he said sharply.

'I think you are not quite yourself--not quite well,' I replied.

'You mean I am drunk.'

'I mean what I say. You are not quite well. Please do not twist my
words.'

'You mean I am drunk,' he insisted, raising his voice. 'I am not drunk;
I have never been drunk. That I can swear with my hand on my heart. But
you are ashamed of being seen with me.'

'I think you ought to go home,' I suggested.

'That is only to get rid of me!' he cried.

'No, no,' I appealed to him persuasively. 'Do not wound me. I will go
with you as far as your house, if you like. You are too ill to be alone.'

At that moment an empty open cab strolled by, and, without pausing for
his answer, I si