emain in my memory as a confusion of bad music, crowds, motor-cars and
champagne of which Poor Jr. was a distributing centre. He could never be
persuaded to the Louvre, the Carnavalet, or the Luxembourg; in truth, he
seldom rose in time to reach the museums, for they usually close at
four in the afternoon. Always with the same inscrutable meekness of
countenance, each night he methodically danced the cake-walk at Maxim's
or one of the Montemarte restaurants, to the cheers of acquaintances of
many nationalities, to whom he offered libations with prodigal enormity.
He carried with him, about the boulevards at night, in the highly
powerful car he had hired, large parties of strange people, who would
loudly sing airs from the Folie-Rouge (to my unhappy shudderings) all
the way from the fatiguing Bal Bullier to the Cafe' de Paris, where the
waiters soon became affluent.

And how many of those gaily dressed and smiling ladies whose bright
eyes meet yours on the veranda of the Theatre Marigny were provided with
excessive suppers and souvenir fans by the inexhaustible Poor Jr.! He
left a trail of pink hundred-franc notes behind him, like a running boy
dropping paper in the English game; and he kept showers of gold louis
dancing in the air about him, so that when we entered the various cafes
or "American bars" a cheer (not vocal but to me of perfect audibility)
went up from the hungry and thirsty and borrowing, and from the
attendants. Ah, how tired I was of it, and how I endeavoured to discover
a means to draw him to the museums, and to Notre Dame and the Pantheon!

And how many times did I unwillingly find myself in the too enlivening
company of those pretty supper-girls, and what jokings upon his head-top
did the poor bald gentleman not undergo from those same demoiselles with
the bright eyes, the wonderful hats, and the fluffy dresses!

How often among those gay people did I find myself sadly dreaming of
that grey pongee skirt and the beautiful heart that had understood!
Should I ever see that lady? Not, I knew, alas! in the whirl about Poor
Jr.! As soon look for a nun at the Cafe' Blanche!

For some reason I came to be persuaded that she had left Paris, that she
had gone away; and I pictured her--a little despairingly--on the borders
of Lucerne, with the white Alps in the sky above her,--or perhaps
listening to the evening songs on the Grand Canal, and I would try to
feel the little rocking of her gondola, making myself d