I can now scarcely remember how that day of wonders went by.  I only know that I rambled about as in a dream, and am vaguely conscious of having wandered through the gardens of the Tuilleries; of having found the Louvre open, and of losing myself among some of the upper galleries; of lying exhausted upon a bench in the Champs Elysees; of returning by quays lined with palaces and spanned by noble bridges; of pacing round and round the enchanted arcades of the Palais Royal; of wondering how and where I should find my hotel, and of deciding at last that I could go no farther without dining somehow.  Wearied and half stupefied, I ventured, at length, into one of the large restaurants upon the Boulevards.  Here I found spacious rooms lighted by superb chandeliers which were again reflected in mirrors that extended from floor to ceiling.  Rows of small tables ran round the rooms, and a double line down the centre, each laid with its snowy cloth and glittering silver.

It was early when I arrived; so I passed up to the top of the room and appropriated a small table commanding a view of the great thoroughfare below.  The waiters were slow to serve me; the place filled speedily; and by the time I had finished my soup, nearly all the tables were occupied.  Here sat a party of officers, bronzed and mustachioed; yonder a group of laughing girls; a pair of provincials; a family party, children, governess and all; a stout capitalist, solitary and self content; a quatuor of rollicking commis-voyageurs; an English couple, perplexed and curious.  Amused by the sight of so many faces, listening to the hum of voices, and watching the flying waiters bearing all kinds of mysterious dishes, I loitered over my lonely meal, and wished that this delightful whirl of novelty might last for ever.  By and by a gentleman entered, walked up the whole length of the room in search of a seat, found my table occupied by only a single person, bowed politely, and drew his chair opposite mine.

He was a portly man of about forty-five or fifty years of age, with a broad, calm brow; curling light hair, somewhat worn upon the temples; and large blue eyes, more keen than tender.  His dress was scrupulously simple, and his hands were immaculately white.  He carried an umbrella little thicker than a walking-stick, and wrote out his list of dishes with a massive gold pencil.  The waiter bowed down before him as if he were an habitue of the place.

It was not long before we fell into conversation.  I do not remember which spoke first; but we talked of Paris—­or rather, I talked and he listened; for, what with the excitement and fatigue of the day, and what with the half bottle of champagne which I had magnificently ordered, I found myself gifted with a sudden flood of words, and ran on, I fear, not very discreetly.

A few civil rejoinders, a smile, a bow, an assent, a question implied rather than spoken, sufficed to draw from me the particulars of my journey.  I told everything, from my birthplace and education to my future plans and prospects; and the stranger, with a frosty humor twinkling about his eyes, listened politely.  He was himself particularly silent; but he had the art of provoking conversation while quietly enjoying his own dinner.  When this was finished, however, he leaned back in his chair, sipped his claret, and talked a little more freely.