The evening of Gaston's arrival he took him to a cafe and dined him, and
afterwards to the Boullier--there, merely that he might see; but this
place had nothing more than a passing interest for him. His mind had the
poetry of a free, simple--even wild-life, but he had no instinct for vice
in the name of amusement. But the later hours spent in the garden under
the stars, the cheerful hum of the boulevards coming to them distantly,
stung his veins like good wine. They sat and talked, with no word of
England in it at all, Jacques near, listening.

Ian Belward was at his best: genial, entertaining, with the art of the
man of no principles, no convictions, and a keen sense of life's sublime
incongruities. Even Jacques, whose sense of humour had grown by long
association with Gaston, enjoyed the piquant conversation. The next
evening the same. About ten o'clock a few men dropped in: a sculptor,
artists, and Meyerbeer, an American newspaper correspondent--who,
however, was not known as such to Gaston.

This evening Ian determined to make Gaston talk. To deepen a man's love
for a thing, get him to talk of it to the eager listener--he passes from
the narrator to the advocate unconsciously. Gaston was not to talk of
England, but of the North, of Canada, of Mexico, the Lotos Isles. He did
so picturesquely, yet simply too, in imperfect but sufficient French.
But as he told of one striking incident in the Rockies, he heard Jacques
make a quick expression of dissent. He smiled. He had made some mistake
in detail. Now, Jacques had been in his young days in Quebec the village
story-teller; one who, by inheritance or competency, becomes semi-
officially a raconteur for the parish; filling in winter evenings,
nourishing summer afternoons, with tales, weird, childlike, daring.

Now Gaston turned and said to Jacques: