brasserie beloved of artists and art students, and slightly more popular
with them than similar institutions of the same ilk in the Latin
Quarter. Here, one hazy October evening, nine months after Mr. Von
Whele's hurried departure from Paris, might have been found Jack Clare.
Tête-à-tête with him, across the little marble-topped table, was his
friend Victor Nevill, whom he had known in earlier days in England, and
whose acquaintance he had recently renewed in gay Paris. Nevill was an
Oxford graduate, and a wild and dissipated young man of Jack's age; he
was handsome and patrician-looking, a hail-fellow-well-met and a
favorite with women, but a close observer of character would have
proclaimed him to be selfish and heartless. He had lately come into
a large sum of money, and was spending it recklessly.

The long, low-ceilinged room was dim with tobacco smoke, noisy with
ribald jests and laughter. Here and there the waitresses, girls
coquettishly dressed, tripped with bottles and syphons, foaming bocks,
and glasses of brandy or liqueurs. The customers of the brasserie were
a mixed lot of women and men, the latter comprising' numerous
nationalities, and all drawn to Paris by the wiles of the Goddess of
Art. Topical songs of the day succeeded one another rapidly. A group of
long-haired, polyglot students hung around the piano, while others
played on violins or guitars, which they had brought to contribute to
the evening's enjoyment. At intervals, when there was a lull, the click
of billiard balls came from an adjoining apartment. Out on the
boulevard, under the glaring lights, the tide of revelers and
pleasure-seekers flowed unceasingly.

"I consider this a night wasted," said Jack. "I would rather have gone
to the Casino, for a change."