"No. I am going to try my luck in America again."

"My club address you will find on my card. You must go? It's only the
shank of the evening."

"I have a little work to do. Some day I hope I may be able to set as
good a dinner before you."

"Better have a cigar."

"No, thank you."

And Fitzgerald liked him none the less for his firmness. So he went as
far as the entrance with him.

"Don't bother about calling a cab," said Breitmann. "It has stopped
raining, and the walk will tone me up. Good night and good luck."

And they parted, neither ever expecting to see the other again, and
equally careless whether they did or not.

Breitmann walked rapidly toward the river, crossed, and at length
entered a gloomy old _pension_ over a restaurant frequented by
bargemen, students, and human driftwood. As he climbed the badly
lighted stairs, a little, gray-haired man, wearing spectacles, passed
him, coming down. A "pardon" was mumbled, and the little man proceeded
into the restaurant, picked a _Figaro_ from the table littered with
newspapers, ensconced himself in a comfortable chair, and ordered
coffee. No one gave him more than a cursory glance. The quarter was
indigent, but ordinarily respectable; and it was only when some noisy