"Oh, I don't know about that! It seems to me these things, which I
suppose undoubtedly exist, should not be made important by taking much
notice of them. What will you have to drink, Streeter?"

"Bring me a liqueur of brandy," said Streeter to the garçon who stood
ready to take the order.

When the waiter returned with a small glass, into which he poured the
brandy with the deftness of a Frenchman, filling it so that not a drop
more could be added, and yet without allowing the glass to overflow,
Streeter pulled out his purse.

"No, no!" cried Davison; "you are not going to pay for this--you are
drinking with me."

"I pay for my own drinks," said Streeter, surlily.

"Not when I invite you to drink with me," protested the critic. "I pay
for this brandy."

"Very well, take it, then!" said Streeter, picking up the little glass
and dashing the contents in the face of Davison.

Davison took out his handkerchief.

"What the devil do you mean by that, Streeter?" he asked, as the color
mounted to his brow.

Streeter took out his card and pencilled a word or two on the
pasteboard.