observed my right-hand neighbor. "From the size of your note-book, and
the industry with which you accumulate useful information, I should
presume that you are a conscientious observer of all that is recondite
and curious."

"I as--p--pire to be so," replied the other, with a blush and a bow. "I
m--m--mean to exhaust P--P--Paris. I'm going to write a b--b--book about
it, when I get home."'

My friend to the right flashed one glance of silent scorn upon the
future author, drained the last glass of his Bordeaux-Leoville, pushed
his chair impatiently back, and said:--"This place smells like a
kitchen. Will you come out, and have a cigar?"

So we rose, took our hats, and in a few moments were strolling under the
lindens on the Quai de Corneille.

I, of course, had never smoked in my life; and, humiliating though it
was, found myself obliged to decline a "prime Havana," proffered in the
daintiest of embroidered cigar-cases. My companion looked as if he
pitied me. "You'll soon learn," said he. "A man can't live in Paris
without tobacco. Do you stay there many weeks?"

"Two years, at least," I replied, registering an inward resolution to
conquer the difficulties of tobacco without delay. "I am going to study
medicine under an eminent French surgeon."

"Indeed! Well, you could not go to a better school, or embrace a nobler
profession. I used to think a soldier's life the grandest under heaven;
but curing is a finer thing than killing, after all! What a delicious