In the Quarter

``Why should you want to meet him?''

``I wish to wring his nose two hundred times, one for each franc I lent him.''

``How was that?'' said Braith, absently.

``It was this way. He came to me and told me what I have repeated to you, and that you desired madame to go on at once and wait for you in Vienna, which you expected to reach in a few days after her arrival. That you had bought tickets – one first class for madame, two second class for him and for her maid – before you left, and had told her you had placed plenty of money for the other expenses in her dressing case. But this morning, on looking for the money, none could be found. Madame was sure it had not been stolen. She thought you must have meant to put it there, and forgotten afterwards. If she only had a few francs, just to last as far as Naples! Madame was well known to the bankers on the Santa Lucia there! etc. Well, I'm not such an ass that I didn't first see madame and get her to confirm his statement. But when she did confirm it, with such a charming laugh – she was very pretty – I thought she was a lady and your wife – ''

In the midst of his bitterness, Braith could not help smiling at the thought of Nina with a maid and a courier. He remembered the tiny apartment in the Latin Quarter which she had been glad to occupy with him until conducted by her courier into finer ones. He made a gesture of disgust, and his face burned with the shame of a proud man who has received an affront from an inferior – and who knows it to be his own fault.

``I can at least have the satisfaction of setting that right,'' he said, holding two notes toward the little Mirror man, ``and I can't thank you enough for giving me the opportunity.''

Bulfinch drew back and stammered, ``You don't think I spoke for that! You don't think I'd have spoken at all if I had known – ''

``I do not. And I'm very glad you did not know, for it gives me a chance to clear myself. You must have thought me strangely forgetful, Mr Bulfinch, when the money was not repaid in due time.''

``I – I didn't relish the manner in which you met me just now, I confess, but I'm very much ashamed of myself. I am indeed.''

``Shake hands,'' said Braith, with one of his rare smiles.

The notes were left in Mr Bulfinch's fingers, and as he thrust them hastily out of sight, as if he truly was ashamed, he said, blinking up at Braith, ``Do you – er – would you – may I offer you a glass of whiskey?'' adding hastily, ``I don't drink myself.''

``Why, yes,'' said Braith, ``I don't mind, but I won't drink all alone.''

``Coffee is my tipple,'' said the other, in a faint voice.

``All right; suit yourself. But I should think that rather hot for such a day.''

``Oh, I'll take it iced.''

``Then let us walk over to the Café by the bandstand. We shall find the others somewhere about.''

They strolled through the grove, past the music-stand, and sat down at one of the little iron tables under the trees. The band of the Garde Republicaine was playing. Bulfinch ordered sugar and Eau de selz for Braith, and iced coffee for himself.

Braith looked at the program: No. 1, Faust; No. 2, La Belle Hélène.

``Rex ought to be here, he's so fond of that.''

Mr Bulfinch was mixing, in a surprisingly scientific manner for a man who didn't drink himself, something which the French call a ``coquetelle''; a bit of ice, a little seltzer, a slice of lemon, and some Canadian Club whiskey. Braith eyed the well-worn flask.

``I see you don't trust to the Café's supplies.''

``I only keep this for medicinal purposes,'' said the other, blinking nervously, ``and – and I don't usually produce it when there are any newspapermen around.''

``But you,'' said Braith, sipping the mixture with relish, ``do you take none yourself?''

``I don't drink,'' said the other, and swallowed his coffee in such a hurry as to bring on a fit of coughing. Beads of perspiration clustered above his canary-colored eyebrows as he set down the glass with a gasp.

Braith was watching the crowd. Presently he exclaimed:

``There's Rex now,'' and rising, waved his glass and his cane and called Gethryn's name. The people sitting at adjacent tables glanced at one another resignedly. ``More crazy English!''

``Rex! Clifford!'' Braith shouted, until at last they heard him. In a few moments they had made their way through the crowd and sat down, mopping their faces and protesting plaintively against the heat.

Gethryn's glance questioned Braith, who said, ``Mr Bulfinch and I have had the deuce of a time to make you fellows hear. You'd have been easier to call if you knew what sort of drink he can brew.''

Clifford was already sniffing knowingly at the glass and turning looks of deep intelligence on Bulfinch, who responded gayly, ``Hope you'll have some too,'' and with a sidelong blink at Gethryn, he produced the bottle, saying, ``I don't drink myself, as Mr Gethryn knows.''

Rex said, ``Certainly not,'' not knowing what else to say. But the fondness of Clifford's gaze was ineffable.

Braith, who always hated to see Clifford look like that, turned to Gethryn. ``Favorite of yours on the program.''

Rex looked.

``Oh,'' he cried, ``Belle Hélène.'' Next moment he flushed, and feeling as if the others saw it, crimsoned all the deeper. This escaped Clifford, however, who was otherwise occupied. But he joined in the conversation, hoping for an argument.

``Braith and Rex go in for the Meistersinger, Walküre, and all that rot – but I like some tune to my music.''

``Well, you're going to get it now,'' said Braith; ``the band are taking their places. Now for La Belle Hélène.'' He glanced at Gethryn, who had turned aside and leaned on the table, shading his eyes with his program.

The leader of the band stood wiping his mustache with one hand while he turned the leaves of his score with the other. The musicians came in laughing and chattering, munching their bit of biscuit or smacking their lips over lingering reminiscences of the intermission.

They hung their bayonets against the wall, and at the rat-tat of attention, came to order, standing in a circle with bugles and trombones poised and eyes fixed on the little gold-mounted baton.

A slow wave of the white-gloved hand, a few gentle tips of the wand, and then a sweep which seemed to draw out the long, rich opening chord of the Dream Song and set it drifting away among the trees till it lost itself in the rattle and clatter of the Boulevard St Michel.

Braith and Bulfinch set down their glasses and listened. Clifford silently blew long wreaths of smoke into the branches overhead. Gethryn leaned heavily on the table, one hand shading his eyes.

Oui c'est un rêve;
Un rêve doux d'amour –

The music died away in one last throb. Bulfinch sighed and blinked sentimentally, first on one, then on the other of his companions.

Suddenly the little Mirror man's eyes bulged out, he stiffened and grasped Braith's arm; his fingers were like iron.

``What the deuce!'' began Braith, but, following the other's eyes, he became silent and stern.

``Talk of the devil – do you see him – Pick?''

``I see,'' growled Braith.

``And – and excuse me, but can that be madame? So like, and yet – ''

Braith leaned forward and looked steadily at a couple who were slowly moving toward them in deep conversation.

``No,'' he said at last; and leaning back in his seat he refused to speak again.

Bulfinch chattered on excitedly, and at last he brought his fist down on the table at his right, where Clifford sat drawing a caricature on the marble top.