on the legend of the one great famous and infamous Spanish dancer who
died a long while ago. Mariana did very well for a time. I've heard that
the revolutionary societies intend striking medals in her honour: she's
done worse things to royalty than all the anarchists in Europe! But her
great days are over: she's getting old; that type goes to pieces
quickly, once it begins to slump, and it won't be long before she'll be
horribly fat, though she's still a graceful dancer. She danced at the
Folie Rouge last week."

"Thank you, George," I said gratefully. "I hope you'll point out the
Louvre and the Eiffel Tower to me some day. I didn't mean Mariana."

"What did you mean?"

What I had meant was so obvious that I turned to my friend in surprise.
He was nervously tapping his chin with the handle of his cane and
staring at the white automobile with very grim interest.

"I meant the man with her," I said.

"Oh!" He laughed sourly. "That carrion?"

"You seem to be an acquaintance."

"Everybody on the boulevard knows who he is," said Ward curtly, paused,
and laughed again with very little mirth. "So do you," he continued;
"and as for my acquaintance with him--yes, I had once the distinction of
being his rival in a small way, a way so small, in fact, that it ended
in his becoming a connection of mine by marriage. He's Larrabee Harman."