“

To-night,” young Davenant declared, with something which was suspiciously like a yawn, “I really think that we must chuck it just a little earlier. Shall we say that we leave here at two, and get back to the hotel?”

Mademoiselle Rosine pouted, but said nothing. The young lady from America tried to take Macheson’s hand.

“Yes!” she murmured. “Do let’s! I’m dead tired.”

She whispered something in Macheson’s ear which he affected not to hear. He leaned back in his cushioned seat and laughed.

“What, go home without seeing FranÇois!” he exclaimed. “He’s keeping the corner table for us, and we’re all going to dance the Maxixe with the little Russian girl.”

“We could telephone,” Davenant suggested. “Do you know that we haven’t been to bed before six one morning since we arrived in Paris?”

“Well, isn’t that what we came for?” Macheson exclaimed. “We can go to bed at half-past twelve in London. MaÎtre d’hÔtel, the wine! My friends are getting sleepy. What’s become of the music? Tell our friend there—ah! Monsieur Henri!”

He beckoned to the leader of the orchestra, who came up bowing, with his violin under his arm.

“Monsieur Henri, my friends are ‘triste,’” he explained. “They say there is no music here, no life. They speak of going home to bed. Look at mademoiselle here! She yawns! We did not come to Paris to yawn. Something of the liveliest. You understand? Perhaps mademoiselle there will dance.”

“Parfaitement, monsieur.”

The man bowed himself away, with a twenty-franc piece in the palm of his hand. The orchestra began a gay two-step. Macheson, starting up, passed his arm round the waist of a little fair-haired Parisienne just arriving. She threw her gold satchel on to a table, and they danced round the room. Davenant watched them with unwilling admiration.

“Well, Macheson’s a fair knockout,” he declared. “I’m hanged if he can keep still for five minutes. And when I knew him at Oxford, he was one of the most studious chaps in the college. Gad! he’s dancing with another girl now—look, he’s drinking champagne out of her glass. Shouldn’t stand it, Ella.”

Ella was watching him. Her eyes were very bright, and there was more colour than usual in her cheeks.

“It’s nothing to me what Mr. Macheson does,” she said, with a catch in her voice. “I don’t understand him a bit. I think he’s mad.”

Mademoiselle Rosine leaned across and whispered in her ear. Ella shook her head.

“You see—it is any girl with him,” she said. “He dances with them, pays their bills—see, he pays for Annette there, and away he goes—laughing. You see it is so with them, too. He has finished with them now. He comes back to us. Guess I’m not sure I want him.”

Nevertheless she moved her skirts and made room for him by her side. Macheson came up out of breath, and poured himself out a glass of wine.

“What a time they are serving supper!” he exclaimed.

Davenant groaned.

“My dear fellow,” he exclaimed, “remember our dinner at Lesueur’s. You can’t be hungry!”

“But I am,” Macheson declared. “What are we here for but to eat and drink and enjoy ourselves? Jove! this is good champagne! Mademoiselle Rosine!”

He raised his glass and bowed. Mademoiselle Rosine laughed at him out of her big black eyes. He was rather a fascinating figure, this tall, good-looking young Englishman, who spoke French so perfectly and danced so well.

“I would make you come and sit by me, Monsieur Macheson,” she declared, “but Ella would be jealous.”

“What about me?” Davenant exclaimed.

“Oh! lÀ, lÀ!” she answered, pinching his arm.

“I’m sure I don’t mind,” Ella declared. “I guess we’re all free to talk to whom we please.”

Macheson drew up a chair and sat opposite to them.

“I choose to look at you both,” he said, banging the table with his knife. “GarÇon, we did not come here to eat your flowers or your immaculate tablecloth. We ordered supper half an hour ago. Good! It arrives.”

No one but Macheson seemed to have much appetite. He ate and he drank, and he talked almost alone. He ordered another bottle of wine, and the tongues of the others became a little looser. The music was going now all the time, and many couples were dancing. The fair-haired girl, dancing with an older woman, touched him on the shoulder as she passed, and laughed into his face.

“There is no one,” she murmured, “who dances like monsieur.”

He sprang up from his seat and whirled her round the room. She leaned against his arm and whispered in his ear. Ella watched her with darkening face.

“It is little Flossie from the Folies Marigny,” Mademoiselle Rosine remarked. “You must have a care, Ella. She has followed Monsieur Macheson everywhere with her eyes.”

He returned to his place and continued his supper.

“Hang it all, you people are dull to-night,” he exclaimed. “Drink some more wine, Davenant, and look after mademoiselle. Miss Ella!”

He filled her glass and she leaned over the table.

“Every one else seems to make love to you,” she whispered. “I guess I’ll have to begin. If you call me Miss Ella again I shall box your ears.”

“Ella then, what you will,” he exclaimed. “Remember, all of you, that we are here to have a good time, not to mope. Davenant, if you don’t sparkle up, I shall come and sit between the girls myself.”

“Come along,” they both cried. Mademoiselle Rosine held out her arms, but Macheson kept his seat.

“Let’s go up to the Rat Mort if we’re going,” Ella exclaimed. “It’s dull here, and I’m tired of seeing that yellow-headed girl make eyes at you.”

Macheson laughed and drained his glass.

“Au Rat Mort!” he cried. “Good!”

They paid the bill and all trooped out. The fair-haired girl caught at Macheson’s hand as he passed.

“Au Rat Mort?” she whispered.

She threw a meaning glance at Ella.

“Monsieur is well guarded,” she said softly.

“Malheureusement!” he answered, smiling.

Davenant drew him on one side as the girls went for their cloaks.

“I say, old chap,” he began, “aren’t you trying Ella a bit high? She’s not a bad-tempered girl, you know, but I’m afraid there’ll be a row soon.”

Macheson paused to light a cigarette.

“A row?” he answered. “I don’t see why.”

“You’re a bit catholic in your attentions, you know,” Davenant remarked.

“Why not?” Macheson answered. “Ella is nothing to me. No more are the rest of them. I amuse myself—that’s all.”

Davenant looked as he felt, puzzled.

“Well,” he said. “I’m not sure that Ella sees it in that light.”

“Why shouldn’t she?” Macheson demanded.

“Well, hang it all, you brought her over, didn’t you?” Davenant reminded him.

“She came over as my guest,” Macheson answered. “That is to say, I pay for her whenever she chooses to come out with us, and I pay or shall pay her hotel bill. Beyond that, I imagine that we are both of us free to amuse ourselves as we please.”

“I don’t believe Ella looks at it in that light,” Davenant said hesitatingly. “You mean to say that there is nothing—er——”

“Of course not,” Macheson interrupted.

“Hasn’t she——”

“Oh! shut up,” Macheson exclaimed. “Here they come.”

Ella passed her arm through his. Mademoiselle Rosine had told her while she stood on tiptoe and dabbed at her cheeks with a powder-puff, that she was too cold. The Messieurs Anglais were often so difficult. They needed encouragement, so very much encouragement. Then there were more confidences, and Madame Rosine was very much astonished. What sort of a man was this Monsieur Macheson, yet so gallant, so gay! She promised herself that she would watch him.

“We will drive up together, you and I,” Ella whispered in his ear, but Macheson only laughed.

“I’ve hired a motor car for the night,” he said. “In you get! I’m going to sit in front with the chauffeur and sing.”

“You will do nothing of the sort,” Ella declared, almost sharply. “You will come inside with us.”

“Anywhere, anyhow,” he answered. “To the little hell at the top of the hill, Jean, and drive fast,” he directed. “Jove! it’s two o’clock! Hurry up, Davenant. We shall have no time there at all.”

There was barely room for four. Mademoiselle Rosine perched herself daintily on Davenant’s knee. Ella tried to draw Macheson into her arms, but he sank on to the floor, and sat with his hands round his knees singing a French music-hall song of the moment. They shouted to him to leave off, but he only sang the louder. Then, in a block, he sprang from the car, seized the whole stock of a pavement flower-seller, and, paying her magnificently, emptied them through the window of the car into the girls’ laps, and turning round as suddenly—disappeared.

“He’s mad—quite mad,” Ella declared, with a sigh. “I don’t believe we shall see him again to-night.”

Nevertheless, he was on the pavement outside the Rat Mort awaiting them, chaffing the commissionaire. He threw open the door and welcomed them.

“They are turning people away here,” he declared. “Heaps of fun going on! All the artistes from the Circus are here, and a party of Spaniards. FranÇois has kept our table. Come along.”

Ella hung on to him as they climbed the narrow, shabby staircase.

“Say,” she pleaded in his ear, “don’t you want to be a little nicer to me to-night?”

“Command me,” he answered. “I am in a most amenable temper.”

“Sit with me instead of wandering round so. You don’t want to talk to every pretty girl, do you?”

He laughed.

“Why not? Aren’t we all on the same quest? It is the ‘camaraderie’ of pleasure!”

They reached the bend of the stairs. From above they could hear the music, the rattle of plates, the hum of voices. She leaned towards him.

“Kiss me, please,” she whispered.

He stooped down and raised her hand to his lips. She drew it slowly away and looked at him curiously.

“Your lips are cold,” she said.

He laughed.

“The night is young,” he answered. “See, there is FranÇois.”

They passed on. Ella was a little more content. It was the most promising thing he had said to her.