“It is a tibia!” said he, examining it through his double eye-glass.

“And what of that?” laughed Rachel.  “Is it so wonderful to find one leg in a collection of arms?  However, not to puzzle you, I may as well acknowledge that it was brought to me from Rome by a learned Italian, and is a curious antique.  The Romans made flutes of the leg-bones of their enemies, and this is one of them.”

“A melodious barbarism!” exclaimed one.

“Puts a ‘stop,’ at all events, to the enemy’s flight!” said another.

“Almost as good as drinking out of his skull,” added a third.

“Or as eating him, tout de bon,” said Rachel.

“There must be a certain satisfaction in cannibalism,” observed the cynic who had spoken before.  “There are people upon whom one would sup willingly.”

“As, for instance, critics, who are our natural enemies,” said Rachel. “C’est a dire, if critics were not too sour to be eaten.”

“Nay, with the sweet sauce of vengeance!”

“You speak feelingly, Monsieur de Musset.  I am almost sorry, for your sake, that cannibalism is out of fashion!”

“It is one of the penalties of civilization,” replied de Musset, with a shrug.  “Besides, one would not wish to be an epicure.”

Dalrymple, who had been listening somewhat disdainfully to this skirmish of words, here touched me on the arm and turned away.

“Don’t you hate this sort of high-pressure talk?” he said, impatiently.

“I was just thinking it so brilliant.”

“Pshaw!—­conversational fireworks—­every speaker bent on eclipsing every other speaker.  It’s an artificial atmosphere, my dear Damon—­a sort of forcing-house for good things; and I hate forced witticisms, as I hate forced peas.  But have you had enough of it?  Or has this feast of reason taken away your appetite for simpler fare?”

“If you mean, am I ready to go with you to Madame de Courcelles’—­yes.”

“A la bonne heure!”

“But you are not going away without taking leave of Madame Rachel?”

“Unquestionably.  Leave-taking is a custom more honored in the breach than the observance.”

“But isn’t that very impolite?”

“Ingenu! Do you know that society ignores everything disagreeable?  A leave-taker sets an unpleasant example, disturbs the harmony of things, and reminds others of their watches.  Besides, he suggests unwelcome possibilities.  Perhaps he finds the party dull; or, worse still, he may be going to one that is pleasanter.”

By this time we were again rattling along the Boulevard.  The theatres were ablaze with lights.  The road was full of carriages.  The trottoir was almost as populous as at noon.  The idlers outside the cafes were still eating their ices and sipping their eau-sucre as though, instead of being past eleven at night, it was scarcely eleven in the morning.  In a few minutes, we had once