old wines and Cabanas at two-francs-fifty. We are collectively, a good
sort of vagabond. I have a little besides my work; not much, but
enough to loaf on when no newspaper or magazine cares to pay my
expenses in Europe. Anyhow, I prefer this work to staying home to be
hampered by intellectual boundaries. My vest will never reach the true
proportions which would make me successful in politics."

"You are luckier than I am," Breitmann replied. He sipped his wine
slowly and with relish. How long was it since he had tasted a good
chambertin?

Perhaps Fitzgerald had noticed it when Breitmann came in. The latter's
velvet collar was worn; there was a suspicious gloss at the elbows; the
cuff buttons were of cheap metal; his fingers were without rings. But
the American readily understood. There are lean years and fat years in
journalism, and he himself had known them. For the present this man
was a little down on his luck; that was all.

A party came in and took the near table. There were four; two elderly
men, an elderly woman, and a girl. Fitzgerald, as he side-glanced, was
afforded a shiver of pleasure. He recognized the girl. It was she who
had given the flowers to the veteran.

"That is a remarkably fine young woman," said Breitmann, echoing
Fitzgerald's thought.

The waiter opened the champagne.

"Yes. I saw her give some violets this afternoon to an old soldier in
the tomb. It was a pretty scene."