iter stopped him.

"Your name, please!"

"What's that?" replied Fandor.

The waiter answered with ironical politeness:

"I take it for granted you have engaged a table. We haven't a single
vacant place left."

Fandor had the same luck at several other restaurants and then began to
suffer the pangs of hunger, having, on principle, scarcely touched the
heavy dishes served at the banquet.

After wandering aimlessly about, he walked toward the Madeleine and
turned off into the Rue Royale in the direction of the Faubourg
Saint-Honore.

As he was passing a discreet looking restaurant with many thick velvet
curtains and an imposing array of private automobiles before it, he
heard his name called.

He stopped short and turned to see a vision of feminine loveliness
standing before him.

"Isabelle de Guerray!" he cried.

"And how are you, my dear boy? Come along in with me."

Fandor had known Isabelle de Guerray when she was a young school teacher
just graduated from Sevres. Her career, beginning with a somewhat
strange and unorthodox affair with a young man of good family who had
killed himself for her, had progressed by rapid strides and her name was
frequently cited in the minor newspapers as giving elegant "society"
suppers, the guests being usually designated by their initials!

Fandor remarked that the fair Isabelle seemed to be putting on weight,
especially round the shoulders and hips, but she still retained a great
deal of dash and an ardent look in her eyes, very valuable assets in her
profession.

"I have my table here, at Raxim's, you must come and join us," and she
added with a sly smile, "Oh--quite platonically--I know you're
unapproachable."

A deafening racket was going on in the narrow, oblong room. The habitues
of the place all knew each other and the conversation was general. No
restraint was observed, so that it was quite permissible to wander
about, hat on head and cigar between lips, or take a lady upon one's
knees.

Fandor followed Isabelle to a table overloaded with flowers and bottles
of champagne. Here and there he recognized old friends from the Latin
Quarter or Montmartre, among them Conchita Conchas, a Spanish dancer in
vogue the previous winter. A tiny woman, who might have been a girl of
fifteen from her figure, but whose face was marked with the lines of
dissipation, ran into him and Fandor promptly put his arm round her
waist.

"Hello, if it isn't little Souppe!"

"Paws do