that day, to have been a part of that bewildering war panorama; from
Toulon to Waterloo! Pardon; perhaps I bore you?"

"By George, no! I'm as bad, if not worse. I shall never forgive one
of my forebears for serving under Wellington."

"Nor I one of mine for serving under Blücher!"

They laughed aloud this time. It is always pleasant to meet a person
who waxes enthusiastic over the same things as oneself. And Fitzgerald
was drawn toward this comparative stranger, who was not ashamed to
speak from his heart. They drifted into a long conversation, and
fought a dozen battles, compared this general and that, and built idle
fancies upon what the outcome would have been had Napoleon won at
Waterloo. This might have gone on indefinitely had not the patient
attendant finally dandled his keys and yawned over his watch. It was
four o'clock, and they had been talking for a full hour. They
exchanged cards, and Fitzgerald, with his usual disregard of
convention, invited Breitmann to dine with him that evening at the
Meurice.

He selected a table by the window, dining at seven-thirty. Breitmann
was prompt. In evening clothes there was something distinctive about
the man. Fitzgerald, who was himself a wide traveler and a man of the
world, instantly saw and was agreeably surprised that he had asked a
gentleman to dine. Fitzgerald was no cad; he would have been just as
much interested in Breitmann had he arrived in a cutaway sack. But
chance acquaintances, as a rule, are rudimental experiments.

They sat down. Breitmann was full of surprises; and as the evening