I once had a very dear friend, a young man of splendid dramatic ability with a likable but erratic nature. He is constantly falling in love. As a rule his heart petals fall to those of the opposite sex far beneath him intellectually. This young man has a most impressive and artistic temperament and has absorbed not a little knowledge of his art from the masters.

He has blazoned this superficial knowledge to such an extent that he has grown to believe that he is a most important and necessary adjunct to his profession. If he were possessed of the knowledge he imagines he has he would be a genius!

As it is he is a nuisance!

He has succeeded in making many enemies by his aggressive and argumentative manner in which only a genius can indulge. He has never annoyed me for I love his spontaneity and his youth. He has emulated the acts of several stars and, like the aspiring pugilist who is ever ready to assume the name of a champion older in experience, such as "Young" Corbett or "Young" Fitzsimmons, he delights in being known as "Young" Mansfield. He has some charm and is most convincing to those who are not conversant with his methods.

He has succeeded in interesting several conspicuous people—millionaires and prominent theatrical and operatic stars, including a prima donna known to fame. The latter became interested in him to such an extent that an amour sprang up and they disappeared for a time (that is they imagined they had, but delightful Paris, which always treats such vagaries as they deserve, was fully cognizant of the situation, looked on and smiled).

I was ignorant of their rendezvous. I never imagined that the lady whom he had mentioned to me as being mildly interested in him was in the same country until one day during a visit to a nerve specialist, to whom this young man had recommended me, the man of medicine remarked:—

"I was at the Opera last night and bowed to your young friend——but he failed to acknowledge the salutation. He concealed himself behind the curtains of the box he was occupying, evidently not seeking recognition. That was unnecessary as I am on the board of directors at the Grand Opera House and sent the box to Madam —— whose guest your young friend was. Why should he disguise the fact that he was her friend?"

"Is that known in Paris?" I gasped.

"Certainly," he answered.

"And does it not affect the lady's social and professional standing?" I queried.

"My friend," replied the doctor, "we love artists; we question not the motives that make them artists, be it illicit love or sanctioned. It's all the same; they are creatures of caprice and have many nests."

"Does that apply to private life in Paris?" I asked.

"Certainly," quoth the Philosopher of Nerves. "Why, it is most difficult to give a dinner party these days. One cannot invite the husband without first ascertaining the name of his affinity, nor the wife without knowing the name of her sweetheart. My wife always arranges the table to avoid awkward complications."

I thought how delightfully naÏve and completely perfect was their understanding. That splendid point of view was unlike the ostrich methods in vogue in London and insular New York.

No wonder my young friend and his prima donna met with disaster when they crossed the Channel!

But I admire him and his audacity.

Chapter XLIV