In Paris Zora was caught in the arms of the normal and the uneventful.  An American family consisting of a father, mother, son and two daughters touring the continent do not generate an atmosphere of adventure.  Their name was Callender, they were wealthy, and the track beaten by the golden feet of their predecessors was good enough for them.  They were generous and kindly.  There was no subtle complexity in their tastes.  They liked the best, they paid for it, and they got it.  The women were charming, cultivated and eager for new sensations.  They found Zora a new sensation, because she had that range of half tones which is the heritage of a child of an older, grayer civilization.  Father and son delighted in her.  Most men did.  Besides, she relieved the family tedium.  The family knew the Paris of the rich Anglo-Saxon and other rich Anglo-Saxons in Paris.  Zora accompanied them on their rounds.  They lunched and dined in the latest expensive restaurants in the Champs Elysees and the Bois; they went to races; they walked up and down the Rue de la Paix and the Avenue de l’Opera and visited many establishments where the female person is adorned.  After the theater they drove to the Cabarets of Montmartre, where they met other Americans and English, and felt comfortably certain that they were seeing the naughty, shocking underside of Paris.  They also went to the Louvre and to the Tomb of Napoleon.  They stayed at the Grand Hotel.

Zora saw little of Septimus.  He knew Paris in a queer, dim way of his own, and lived in an obscure hotel, whose name Zora could not remember, on the other side of the river.  She introduced him to the Callenders, and they were quite prepared to receive him into their corporation.  But he shrank from so vast a concourse as six human beings; he seemed to be overawed by the multitude of voices, unnerved by the multiplicity of personalities.  The unfeathered owl blinked dazedly in general society as the feathered one does in daylight.  At first he tried to stand the glare for Zora’s sake.

“Come out and mix with people and enjoy yourself,” cried Zora, when he was arguing against a proposal to join the party on a Versailles excursion.  “I want you to enjoy yourself for once in your life.  Besides—­you’re always so anxious to be human.  This will make you human.”

“Do you think it will?” he asked seriously.  “If you do, I’ll come.”

But at Versailles they lost him, and the party, as a party, knew him no more.  What he did with himself in Paris Zora could not imagine.  A Cambridge acquaintance—­one of the men on his staircase who had not yet terminated his disastrous career—­ran across him in the Boulevard Sevastopol.

“Why—­if it isn’t the Owl!  What are you doing?”

“Oh—­hooting,” said Septimus.

Which was more information as to his activities than he vouchsafed to give Zora.  Once he murmured something about a friend whom he saw occasionally.  When she asked him where his friend lived he waved an indeterminate hand eastwards and said, “There!” It was a friend, thought Zora, of whom he had no reason to be proud, for he prevented further questioning by adroitly changing the conversation to the price of hams.