places. He said he had often heard that, but would risk it. I
remonstrated, but he was firm. "Alors," I told the waiter, "pour Monsieur
un verre de l'eau fraiche, et pour moi un demi blonde."

Pethel asked me to tell him who every one was. I told him no one
was any one in particular, and suggested that we should talk about
ourselves.

"You mean," he laughed, "that you want to know who the devil I
am?"

I assured him that I had often heard of him. At this he was
unaffectedly pleased.

"But," I added, "it's always more interesting to hear a man talked
about by himself." And indeed, since he had NOT handed his
winnings over to me, I did hope he would at any rate give me some
glimpses into that "great character" of his. Full though his life had been,
he seemed but like a rather clever schoolboy out on a holiday. I wanted
to know more.

"That beer looks good," he admitted when the waiter came back. I
asked him to change his mind, but he shook his head, raised to his lips
the tumbler of water that had been placed before him, and meditatively
drank a deep draft. "I never," he then said, "touch alcohol of any sort."
He looked solemn; but all men do look solemn when they speak of their
own habits, whether positive or negative, and no matter how trivial; and
so, though I had really no warrant for not supposing him a reclaimed
drunkard, I dared ask him for what reason he abstained.