“I am sorry for him,” said Dalrymple; “but it is a case of wilful ruin.  He made up his mind to go to the devil, and went accordingly.  I am only surprised that the crash came no sooner.”

M. de Simoneourt twitched at the supercilious moustache.

“And you think you would not care to take the black mare with the Tilbury?” said he, negligently.

“No—­I have a capital horse, already.”

“Hah I—­well—­’tis almost a pity.  The mare is a dead bargain.  Shouldn’t wonder if I buy her, after all.”

“And yet you don’t want her,” said Dalrymple.

“Quite true; but one must have a favorite sin, and horseflesh is mine.  I shall ruin myself by it some day—­mort de ma vie! By the way, have you seen my chestnut in harness?  No?  Then you will be really pleased.  Goes delightfully with the gray, and manages tandem to perfection. Parbleu! I was forgetting—­do we meet to-night?”

“Where?”

“At Chardonnier’s.”

Dalrymple shook his head, and turned the key in his cash box.

“Not this evening,” he replied.  I have other engagements.”

“Bah! and I promised to go, believing you were sure to be of the party.  St. Pol, I know, will be there, and De Brezy also.”

“Chardonnier’s parties are charming things in their way,” said Dalrymple, somewhat coldly, “and no man enjoys Burgundy and lansquenet more heartily than myself; but one might grow to care for nothing else, and I have no desire to fall into worse habits than those I have contracted already.”

M. de Simoneourt laughed a dry, short laugh, and twitched again at the supercilious moustache.

“I had no idea you were a philosopher,” said he.

“Nor am I. I am a mauvais sujet—­mauvais enough, already, without seeking to become worse.”

“Well, adieu—­I will see to this affair of the Tilbury, and desire them to let you have it by noon to-morrow.”

“A thousand thanks.  I am ashamed that you have so much trouble in the matter. Au revoir.”

“Au revoir.”

Whereupon M. de Simoncourt honored me with a passing bow, and took his departure.  Being near the window, I saw him spring into an elegant cabriolet, and drive off with the showiest of high horses and the tiniest of tigers.

He was no sooner gone than Dalrymple took me by the shoulders, placed me in an easy chair, poured out a couple of glasses of hock, and said:—­

“Now, then, my young friend, your news or your life!  Out with it, every word, as you hope to be forgiven!”

I had but little to tell, and for that little, found myself, as I had anticipated, heartily laughed at.  My adventure at the restaurant, my unlucky meeting with Dr. Cheron, and the history of my interview with him next morning, delighted Dalrymple beyond measure.

Nothing would satisfy him, after this, but to call me Damon, to tease me continually about Doctor Pythias, and to remind me at every turn of the desirableness of Arcadian friendships.