the second of Mr. J. K. Blunt's declarations.

"Yes," he said. "Je suis Americain, catholique et gentil-homme,"
in a tone contrasting so strongly with the smile, which, as it
were, underlined the uttered words, that I was at a loss whether to
return the smile in kind or acknowledge the words with a grave
little bow. Of course I did neither and there fell on us an odd,
equivocal silence. It marked our final abandonment of the French
language. I was the one to speak first, proposing that my
companions should sup with me, not across the way, which would be
riotous with more than one "infernal" supper, but in another much
more select establishment in a side street away from the
Cannebiere. It flattered my vanity a little to be able to say that
I had a corner table always reserved in the Salon des Palmiers,
otherwise Salon Blanc, where the atmosphere was legitimist and
extremely decorous besides--even in Carnival time. "Nine tenths of
the people there," I said, "would be of your political opinions, if
that's an inducement. Come along. Let's be festive," I encouraged
them.

I didn't feel particularly festive. What I wanted was to remain in
my company and break an inexplicable feeling of constraint of which
I was aware. Mills looked at me steadily with a faint, kind smile.

"No," said Blunt. "Why should we go there? They will be only
turning us out in the small hours, to go home and face insomnia.
Can you imagine anything more disgusting?"

He was smiling all the time, but his deep-set eyes did not lend
themselves to the expression of whimsical politeness which he tried