low-necked shirt, a bitter sense of the decline and fall involved in the
deprivation of his beard, all these were among the ingredients of the
bowl. To reach the restaurant, for which they were deviously steering,
was the first relief. To hear Michael bespeak a private room was a
second and a still greater. Nor, as they mounted the stair under the
guidance of an unintelligible alien, did he fail to note with gratitude
the fewness of the persons present, or the still more cheering fact that
the greater part of these were exiles from the land of France. It was
thus a blessed thought that none of them would be connected with the
Seminary; for even the French professor, though admittedly a Papist, he
could scarce imagine frequenting so rakish an establishment.

The alien introduced them into a small bare room with a single table,
a sofa, and a dwarfish fire; and Michael called promptly for more coals
and a couple of brandies and sodas.

'O, no,' said Pitman, 'surely not--no more to drink.'

'I don't know what you would be at,' said Michael plaintively. 'It's
positively necessary to do something; and one shouldn't smoke before
meals I thought that was understood. You seem to have no idea
of hygiene.' And he compared his watch with the clock upon the
chimney-piece.

Pitman fell into bitter musing; here he was, ridiculously shorn,
absurdly disguised, in the company of a drunken man in spectacles, and
waiting for a champagne luncheon in a restaurant painfully foreign. What
would his principals think, if they could see him? What if they knew his
tragic and deceitful errand?