So he nodded to de Sourdam of the Austrian embassy and had his word with Pluyvis, and rejoiced to have impressed me--I could see him bubble with happiness and purr.

He proposed that we should stroll as far as the paper kiosque that he patronised habitually--it was kept by a fellow-Israelite--a snuffy little old woman.
I understood that in the joy of his heart he was for expanding, for wasting a few minutes on a stroll.
"Haven't stretched my legs for months," he explained.
We strolled there through the summer twilight.

It was so pleasant to saunter through the young summer night.

There were so many little things to catch the eyes, so many of the little things down near the earth; expressions on faces of the passers, the set of a collar, the quaint foreign tightness of waist of a good bourgeoise who walked arm in arm with her perspiring spouse.

The gilding on the statue of Joan of Arc had a pleasant littleness of Philistinism, the arcades of the Rue de Rivoli broke up the grey light pleasantly too.