"Paris?" said Gretchen, laying a neat little trap for me into which my
conceit was soon to tumble me. "Paris is a marvelous city."

"There is no city to equal it. Inasmuch as we three shall never meet
again, will you not do me the honor to repeat that jewel song from
_Faust_?" My audacity did not impress her in the least.

"You can scarcely expect me to give a supper to a stranger and then
sing for him, besides," said Gretchen, a chill again stealing into her
tones. "These Americans!" she observed to her companion in French.

I laid aside my cigar, approached the piano, and sat down. I struck a
few chords and found the instrument to be in remarkably good order. I
played a Chopin _Polonaise_, I tinkled Grieg's _Papillon_, then I
ceased.

"That is to pay for my supper," I explained.

Next I played _Le Courier_, and when I had finished that I turned
again, rising.

"That is to pay for my horse's supper," I said.

Gretchen's good humor returned.

"Whoever you are, sir," her tone no longer repellent, "you are amusing.
Pray, tell us whom we have the honor to entertain?"

"I haven't the vaguest idea who my hostess is,"--evasively.