A SIESTA.

In an elegant suite of chambers in the Rue Castiglione sat a merry party at dessert.

Senhor Jose Francisco de Silvis was a short-legged, dark-complexioned Portuguese, one of those who usually come from Brazil with incredible wealth, live incredible lives in Paris, and, above all, become notorious by making the most incredible acquaintances.

In that little company scarcely anybody, except those who had come in pairs, knew his neighbour.  And the host himself knew his guests only through casual meetings at balls, tables d’ hote, or in the street.

Senhor de Silvis laughed much, and talked loudly of his success in life, as is the habit of rich foreigners; and as he could not reach up to the level of the Jockey Club, he gathered the best company he could find.  When he met anyone, he immediately asked for the address, and sent next day an invitation to a little dinner.  He spoke all languages, even German, and one could see by his face that he was not a little proud when he called over the table:  Mein lieber Herr Doctor!  Wie geht’s Ihnen?’

There was actually a live German doctor among this merry party.  He had an overgrown light-red beard, and that Sedan smile which invariably accompanies the Germans in Paris.

The temperature of the conversation rose with the champagne; the sounds of fluent and broken French were mingled with those of Spanish and Portuguese.  The ladies lay back in their chairs and laughed.  The guests already knew each other well enough not to be reserved or constrained.  Jokes and bons-mots passed over the table, and from mouth to mouth.  ‘Der liebe Doctor’ alone engaged in a serious discussion with the gentleman next to him—­a French journalist with a red ribbon in his buttonhole.

And there was one more who was not drawn into the general merriment.  He sat on the right of Mademoiselle Adele, while on the left was her new lover, the corpulent Anatole, who had surfeited himself on truffles.

During dinner Mademoiselle Adele had endeavoured, by many innocent little arts, to infuse some life into her right-hand neighbour.  However, he remained very quiet, answering her courteously, but briefly, and in an undertone.

At first she thought he was a Pole—­one of those very tiresome specimens who wander about and pretend to be outlaws.  However, she soon perceived that she had made a mistake, and this piqued Mademoiselle Adele.  For one of her many specialties was the ability to immediately ‘assort’ all the foreigners with whom she mingled, and she used to declare that she could guess a man’s nationality as soon as she had spoken ten words with him.

But this taciturn stranger caused her much perplexed cogitation.  If he had only been fair-haired, she would at once have set him down as an Englishman, for he talked like one.  But he had dark hair, a thick black moustache, and a nice little figure.  His fingers were remarkably long, and he had a peculiar way of trifling with his bread and playing with his dessert-fork.