else. This--you see--is the last evening of that part of my life
in which I did not know that woman. These are like the last hours
of a previous existence. It isn't my fault that they are
associated with nothing better at the decisive moment than the
banal splendours of a gilded cafe and the bedlamite yells of
carnival in the street.

We three, however (almost complete strangers to each other), had
assumed attitudes of serious amiability round our table. A waiter
approached for orders and it was then, in relation to my order for
coffee, that the absolutely first thing I learned of Captain Blunt
was the fact that he was a sufferer from insomnia. In his
immovable way Mills began charging his pipe. I felt extremely
embarrassed all at once, but became positively annoyed when I saw
our Prax enter the cafe in a sort of mediaeval costume very much
like what Faust wears in the third act. I have no doubt it was
meant for a purely operatic Faust. A light mantle floated from his
shoulders. He strode theatrically up to our table and addressing
me as "Young Ulysses" proposed I should go outside on the fields of
asphalt and help him gather a few marguerites to decorate a truly
infernal supper which was being organized across the road at the
Maison Doree--upstairs. With expostulatory shakes of the head and
indignant glances I called his attention to the fact that I was not
alone. He stepped back a pace as if astonished by the discovery,
took off his plumed velvet toque with a low obeisance so that the
feathers swept the floor, and swaggered off the stage with his left
hand resting on the hilt of the property dagger at his belt.

Meantime the well-connected but rustic Mills had been busy lighting
his briar and the distinguished Captain sat smiling to himself. I