that's all."

"Ah well," said Ignatius Gallaher, cheerfully, "here's to us and to old
times and old acquaintance."

They clinked glasses and drank the toast.

"I met some of the old gang today," said Ignatius Gallaher. "O'Hara
seems to be in a bad way. What's he doing?"

"Nothing," said Little Chandler. "He's gone to the dogs."

"But Hogan has a good sit, hasn't he?"

"Yes; he's in the Land Commission."

"I met him one night in London and he seemed to be very flush.... Poor
O'Hara! Boose, I suppose?"

"Other things, too," said Little Chandler shortly.

Ignatius Gallaher laughed.

"Tommy," he said, "I see you haven't changed an atom. You're the very
same serious person that used to lecture me on Sunday mornings when I
had a sore head and a fur on my tongue. You'd want to knock about a bit
in the world. Have you never been anywhere even for a trip?"

"I've been to the Isle of Man," said Little Chandler.

Ignatius Gallaher laughed.

"The Isle of Man!" he said. "Go to London or Paris: Paris, for choice.
That'd do you good."

"Have you seen Paris?"

"I should think I have! I've knocked about there a little."

"And is it really so beautiful as they say?" asked Little Chandler.

He sipped a little of his drink while Ignatius Gallaher finished his
boldly.

"Beautiful?" said Ignatius Gallaher, pausing on the word and on the
flavour of his drink. "It's not so beautiful, you know. Of course, it is
beautiful.... But it's the life of Paris; that's the thing. Ah, there's
no city like Paris for gaiety, movement, excitement...."

Little Chandler finished his whisky and, after some trouble, succeeded
in catching the barman's eye. He ordered the same again.

"I've been to the Moulin Rouge," Ignatius Gallaher continued when the
barman had removed their glasses, "and I've been to all the Bohemian
cafes. Hot stuff! Not for a pious chap like you, Tommy."

Little Chandler said nothing until the barman returned with two glasses:
then he touched his friend's glass lightly and reciprocated the former
toast. He was beginning to feel somewhat disillusioned. Gallaher's
accent and way of expressing himself did not please him. There was
something vulgar in his friend which he had not observed before. But
perhaps it was only the result of living in London amid the bustle and
competition of the Press. The old personal charm was still there under
this new gaudy manner. And, after all, Gallaher had lived, he had seen
the world