Gordon spoke in his clear, cheerful voice, and Bernard listened
intently. It seemed to him there was an undertone of pain and effort in
his companion's speech; it was that of an unhappy man trying to be wise
and make the best of things.

"Ah, the rubs of life--the rubs of life!" Bernard repeated vaguely.

"We must n't mind them," said Gordon, with a conscientious laugh.
"We must toughen our hides; or, at the worst, we must plaster up our
bruises. But why should we choose this particular place and hour for
talking of the pains of life?" he went on. "Are we not in the midst of
its pleasures? I mean, henceforth, to cultivate its pleasures. What
are yours, just now, Bernard? Is n't it supposed that in Paris one must
amuse one's self? How have you been amusing yourself?"

"I have been leading a very quiet life," said Bernard.

"I notice that 's what people always say when they have been
particularly dissipated. What have you done? Whom have you seen that one
knows?"

Bernard was silent a moment.

"I have seen some old friends of yours," he said at last. "I have seen
Mrs. Vivian and her daughter."

"Ah!" Gordon made this exclamation, and then stopped short. Bernard
looked at him, but Gordon was looking away; his eyes had caught some one
in the crowd. Bernard followed the direction they had taken, and then