gnalled the driver. My heart beat wildly. My spirit was
in an uproar. But I was determined not to desert him, not to abandon him
to a public disgrace. I rose from my seat.

'You're very good,' he said, in a new voice.

The cab had stopped.

'Come!' I entreated him.

He rapped uncertainly on the window, and then, as the waiter did not
immediately appear, he threw some silver on the table, and aimed himself
in the direction of the cab. I got in. Diaz slipped on the step.

'I've forgotten somethin',' he complained. 'What is it? My umbrella--yes,
my umbrella--_pepin_ as they say here. 'Scuse me moment.'

His umbrella was, in fact, lying under a chair. He stooped with
difficulty and regained it, and then the waiter, who had at length
arrived, helped him into the cab, and he sank like a mass of inert clay
on my skirts.

'Tell the driver the address,' I whispered.

The driver, with head turned and a grin on his face, was waiting.

'Rue de Douai,' said Diaz sullenly.

'What number?' the driver asked.

'Does that regard you?' Diaz retorted crossly in French. 'I will tell
you later.'

'Tell him now,' I pleaded.

'Well, to oblige you, I will. Twenty-seven. But what I can't stand is the
impudence of these fellows.'

The driver winked at me.

'Just so,' I soothed Diaz, and we drove off.

I have never been happier than in unhappiness. Happiness is not joy, and
it is not tranquillity. It is something deeper and something more
disturbing. Perhaps it is an acute sense of life, a realization of one's
secret being, a continual renewal of the mysterious savour of existence.
As I crossed Paris with the drunken Diaz leaning clumsily against my
shoulder, I was profoundly unhappy. I was desolated by the sight of this
ruin, and yet I was happier than I had been since Frank died. I had
glimpses and intimations of the baffling essence of our human lives here,
strange, fleeting comprehensions of the eternal wonder and the eternal
beauty.... In vain, professional writer as I am, do I try to express
myself. What I want to say cannot be said; but those who have truly lived
will understand.

We passed over the Seine, lighted and asleep in the exquisite Parisian
night, and the rattling of the cab on the cobble-stones roused Diaz from
his stupor.

'Where are we?' he asked.

'Just going through the Louvre,' I replied.

'I don't know how I got to the other s-side of the river,' he said.
'Don't remember. So you're coming home wit