One day, some months afterwards, we were sitting in our little salon in a
Paris hotel when a card was sent up, which Marian took.
"John," she cried, "it's the Celebrity."
It was the Celebrity, in the flesh, faultlessly groomed and clothed, with
frock coat, gloves, and stick. He looked the picture of ruddy, manly
health and strength, and we saw at once that he bore no ill-will for the
past. He congratulated us warmly, and it was my turn to offer him a
cigarette. He was nothing loath to reminisce on the subject of his
experiences in the wilds of the northern lakes, or even to laugh over
them. He asked affectionately after his friend Cooke. Time had softened
his feelings, and we learned that he had another girl, who was in Paris
just then, and invited us on the spot to dine with her at "Joseph's."
Let me say, in passing, that as usual she did credit to the Celebrity's
exceptional taste.
"Now," said he, "I have something to tell you two."
He asked for another cigarette, and I laid the box beside him.
"I suppose you reached Saville all right," I said, anticipating.
"Seven at night," said he, "and so hungry that I ate what they call
marble cake for supper, and a great many other things out of little side
dishes, and nearly died of indigestion afterward.
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