and artichokes, and a dry yellow Rhone wine of
which Bartley had always been very fond. He drank it appreciatively and
remarked that there was still no other he liked so well.

"I have some champagne for you, too. I don't drink it myself, but I like
to see it behave when it's poured. There is nothing else that looks so
jolly."

"Thank you. But I don't like it so well as this." Bartley held the
yellow wine against the light and squinted into it as he turned the
glass slowly about. "You have traveled, you say. Have you been in Paris
much these late years?"

Hilda lowered one of the candle-shades carefully. "Oh, yes, I go over to
Paris often. There are few changes in the old Quarter. Dear old Madame
Anger is dead--but perhaps you don't remember her?"

"Don't I, though! I'm so sorry to hear it. How did her son turn out? I
remember how she saved and scraped for him, and how he always lay abed
till ten o'clock. He was the laziest fellow at the Beaux Arts; and
that's saying a good deal."

"Well, he is still clever and lazy. They say he is a good architect when
he will work. He's a big, handsome creature, and he hates Americans as
much as ever. But Angel--do you remember Angel?"

"Perfectly. Did she ever get back to Brittany and her bains de mer?"

"Ah, no. Poor Angel! She got tired of cooking and scouring the coppers
in Madame Anger's little kitchen, so she ran away with a soldier, and
then with another soldier. Too bad! She still lives about the Quarter,
and, though there is always a soldat, she has become a blanchisseuse de
fin. She did my blouses beautifully the last time I was there, and was
so delighted to see me again. I gave her all my old clothes, even my old
hats, though she always wears her Breton headdress. Her hair is still
like flax, and her blue eyes are just like a baby's, and she has the
same three freckles on her little nose, and talks about going back to
her bains de mer."

Bartley looked at Hilda across the yellow light of the candles and broke
into a low, happy laugh. "How jolly it was being young, Hilda! Do you
remember that first walk we took together in Paris? We walked down to
the Place Saint-Michel to buy some lilacs. Do you remember how sweet
they smelled?"

"Indeed I do. Come, we'll have our coffee in the other room, and you can
smoke."

Hilda rose quickly, as if she wished to change the drift of their talk,
but Bartley found it pleasant to continue it.

"What a warm, soft spring eveni