“Of course,” said Septimus, feeling very uncomfortable.  “I live in the hotel, and Emmy lives in a flat.  She couldn’t very well stay in the Hotel Godet, because it isn’t a nice place for ladies.  There’s a dog in the courtyard that howls.  I tried to throw him some cold ham the other morning about six o’clock to stop him; but it hit a sort of dustman, who ate it and looked up for more.  It was very good ham, and I was going to have it for supper.”

“But, my dear man,” said Sypher, laying his hand on his friend’s shoulder, and paying no heed to the dog, ham, and dustman story, “aren’t you two living together?”

“Oh, dear, not” said Septimus, in alarm, and then, catching at the first explanation—­“you see, our hours are different.”

Sypher shook his head uncomprehendingly.  The proprietor of the establishment, in dingy shirt-sleeves, set down the beer before him.  Hegisippe, who had mixed his absinthe and was waiting politely until their new friend should be served, raised his glass.

“Just before you came, Monsieur,” said he, “I was about to drink to the health—­”

“Of L’Armee-Francaise,” interrupted Septimus, reaching out his glass.

“But no,” laughed Hegisippe.  “It was to Monsieur, Madame, et Bebe.”

“Bebe?” cried Sypher, and Septimus felt his clear, swift glance read his soul.

They clinked glasses.  Hegisippe, defying the laws governing the absorption of alcohols, tossed off his absinthe in swashbuckler fashion, and rose.

“Now I leave you.  You have many things to talk about.  My respectful compliments to Madame.  Messieurs, au revoir.”

He shook hands, saluted and swaggered off, his chechia at the very back of his head, leaving half his shaven crown uncovered in front.

“A fine fellow, your friend, an intelligent fellow—­” said Sypher, watching him.

“He’s going to be a waiter,” said Septimus.

“Now that he has had his heels rubbed with the cure he may be more ambitious.  A valuable fellow, for having given me a stupendous idea—­but a bit indiscreet, eh?  Never mind,” he added, seeing the piteous look on Septimus’s face.  “I’ll have discretion for the two of us.  I’ll not breathe a word of it to anybody.”

“Thank you,” said Septimus.

There was an awkward silence.  Septimus traced a diagram on the table with the spilled tea.  Sypher lighted a cigar, which he smoked in the corner of his mouth, American fashion.

“Well, I’m damned!” he muttered below his breath.

He looked hard at Septimus, intent on his tea drawing.  Then he shifted his cigar impatiently to the other side of his mouth.  “No, I’m damned if I am.  I can’t be.”

“You can’t be what?” asked Septimus, catching his last words.

“Damned.”

“Why should you be?”

“Look here,” said Sypher, “I’ve rushed in rather unceremoniously into your private affairs.  I’m sorry.  But I couldn’t help taking an interest in the two of you, both for your own sake and that of Zora Middlemist.”