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Andy was growing more at ease and feeling more optimistic every minute. Three men still believed in him, which was much. Also, the crowd could not flurry him as it did some of the others who were not accustomed to so great an audience; rather, it acted as a tonic and brought back the poise, the easy self-confidence which had belonged to one André de Gréno, champion bareback rider.
I realise that Pommery and Greno are not demi-gods at all, but mere commercial purveyors of a form of alcohol, a quart of which it is injudicious to imbibe, with a one-eyed tom-cat as boon companion, at two o'clock in the morning: But I am unrepentant. If I committed follies last night, so much the better.
Andy reached out a hand for the belt, buckled it around his middle and saluted the grand stand as he used to do from the circus ring when one André de Grenó had performed his most difficult feat. The Happy Family crowded up, shamefaced and manfully willing to own themselves wrong. "We're down and ready to be walked on by the Champion," Weary announced quizzically.
Again and again, he brought the conversation round to personal topics; but every time his companion contrived to switch it back to general lines. At last Desmond risked a direct question. By this time a pint of Pommery and Greno was tingling in his veins and he felt he didn't care if the roof fell in.
Elodie had gone, disappeared, vanished into space, like the pearl necklaces which Petit Patou used to throw at her across the stage. "But how? When?" I asked, in bewilderment; for Lackaday and Elodie, as Les Petit Patou, seemed as indissoluble as William and Mary or Pommery and Greno.
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