"One more," Jack assented, sitting down again.

Brandy was ordered, and Victor Nevill kept up a rapid conversation, and
an interesting one. From time to time he glanced covertly at his watch,
and it might have been supposed that he was purposely detaining his
companion. More brandy was placed on the table, and Jack frequently
lifted the glass to his lips. With a cigar between his teeth, with
flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, he laughed as merrily as any in the
room. But he did not drink too much, and the hand that he finally held
out to Nevill was perfectly steady.

"I must be off now," he said. "It is long past midnight. Good-by, old
chap, and bon voyage."

"Good-by, my dear fellow. Take care of yourself."

It was an undemonstrative parting, such as English-men are addicted to.
Jack sauntered out to the boulevard, and turned his steps homeward. His
thoughts were all of Diane, and he was not to be cajoled by a couple of
grisettes who made advances. He nodded to a friendly gendarme, and
crossed the street to avoid a frolicksome party of students, who were
bawling at the top of their voices the chorus of the latest topical song
by Paulus, the Beranger of the day--

"Nous en avons pour tous les gouts."

Victor Nevill heard the refrain as he left the brasserie and looked
warily about. He stepped into a cab, gave the driver hurried
instructions, and was whirled away at a rattling pace toward the Seine.