--who conceived the
notion of this mortuary tea-room."

"Why, of course, is it a woman?"

"A man wouldn't set up housekeeping in--in _Pere Lachaise_."

"Why not, if he found a really domestic-looking corner?"

"He _wouldn't_ in the first place, it wouldn't occur to him, that's
all, and if he did he couldn't get away with it. The only real
drawback to this hostelry is, as you know, that they don't serve
spirits of any kind. I'm accustomed to a glass or two of wine with my
dinner, and my food sticks in my throat when I can't have it, but I've
found a way around that, now."

"Oh! have you?" said Nancy.

"Don't give me away, but there's a man about the place here whose name
is Michael, and he possesses that blend of Gallic facility with Celtic
canniness that makes the Irish so wonderful as a race. I told my
trouble to Michael,--with the result that I get a teapot full of
Chianti with my dinner every night, and no questions asked."

"Oh! you do?" gasped Nancy.

"You see Michael is serving the best interests of his employer, who
wants to keep her patrons, because if I couldn't have it I wouldn't be
there. He couldn't trouble the lady about it, naturally, because it is
technically an offense against the law. Come, let's go and find a
quiet corner where we can continue our conversation comfortably.
There's a painfully respectable little hotel around the corner here
that looks like the Cafe L'avenue when you first go in, but is a place
where the most bourgeoise of one's aunts might put up."

"I--I don't know that I can go," said Nancy.

"There's no reason why you shouldn't, you know. My name is Collier
Pratt. I'm an artist. The more bourgeoise of my aunts would introduce
me if she were here. She's a New Englander like so many of your own
charming relatives."

"How did you know that?" Nancy asked, as she followed him with a
docility quite new to her, past the big green gate, and the row of
nondescript shops between it and the corner of Broadway.

"I was _born_ in Boston," Collier Pratt said a trifle absently. "I
know a Massachusetts product when I see one. Ah! here we are."

He led her triumphantly to a table in the far corner of the
practically empty restaurant, waved away the civilities of a swarthy
and somewhat badly coordinated waiter, and pulled out her chair for
her himself.

"Now, let me have a look at you," he said; "why, you've nothing on but
muslin, and you're wearing your belt for a turban."

"A sop