“Ah well,” said Ignatius Gallaher, cheerfully, “here’s to us and to old times and old acquaintance.”

They clinked glasses and drank the toast.

“I met some of the old gang today,” said Ignatius Gallaher.  “O’Hara seems to be in a bad way.  What’s he doing?”

“Nothing, said Little Chandler.  “He’s gone to the dogs.”

“But Hogan has a good sit, hasn’t he?”

“Yes; he’s in the Land Commission.”

“I met him one night in London and he seemed to be very flush....  Poor O’Hara!  Boose, I suppose?”

“Other things, too,” said Little Chandler shortly.

Ignatius Gallaher laughed.

“Tommy,” he said, “I see you haven’t changed an atom.  You’re the very same serious person that used to lecture me on Sunday mornings when I had a sore head and a fur on my tongue.  You’d want to knock about a bit in the world.  Have you never been anywhere even for a trip?”

“I’ve been to the Isle of Man,” said Little Chandler.

Ignatius Gallaher laughed.

“The Isle of Man!” he said.  “Go to London or Paris:  Paris, for choice.  That’d do you good.”

“Have you seen Paris?”

“I should think I have!  I’ve knocked about there a little.”

“And is it really so beautiful as they say?” asked Little Chandler.

He sipped a little of his drink while Ignatius Gallaher finished his boldly.

“Beautiful?” said Ignatius Gallaher, pausing on the word and on the flavour of his drink.  “It’s not so beautiful, you know.  Of course, it is beautiful....  But it’s the life of Paris; that’s the thing.  Ah, there’s no city like Paris for gaiety, movement, excitement....”

Little Chandler finished his whisky and, after some trouble, succeeded in catching the barman’s eye.  He ordered the same again.

“I’ve been to the Moulin Rouge,” Ignatius Gallaher continued when the barman had removed their glasses, “and I’ve been to all the Bohemian cafes.  Hot stuff!  Not for a pious chap like you, Tommy.”

Little Chandler said nothing until the barman returned with two glasses:  then he touched his friend’s glass lightly and reciprocated the former toast.  He was beginning to feel somewhat disillusioned.  Gallaher’s accent and way of expressing himself did not please him.  There was something vulgar in his friend which he had not observed before.  But perhaps it was only the result of living in London amid the bustle and competition of the Press.  The old personal charm was still there under this new gaudy manner.  And, after all, Gallaher had lived, he had seen the world.  Little Chandler looked at his friend enviously.

“Everything in Paris is gay,” said Ignatius Gallaher.  “They believe in enjoying life—­and don’t you think they’re right?  If you want to enjoy yourself properly you must go to Paris.  And, mind you, they’ve a great feeling for the Irish there.  When they heard I was from Ireland they were ready to eat me, man.”