Matthew Peel-Swynnerton might not go out into the crepuscular delights of Paris.  Unless he remained within the shelter of the Pension, he could not hope to complete successfully his re-conversion from folly to wisdom.  So he bravely passed through the small rose-embroidered door into a small glass-covered courtyard, furnished with palms, wicker armchairs, and two small tables; and he lighted a pipe and pulled out of his pocket a copy of The Referee.  That retreat was called the Lounge; it was the only part of the Pension where smoking was not either a positive crime or a transgression against good form.  He felt lonely.  He said to himself grimly in one breath that pleasure was all rot, and in the next he sullenly demanded of the universe how it was that pleasure could not go on for ever, and why he was not Mr. Barney Barnato.  Two old men entered the retreat and burnt cigarettes with many precautions.  Then Mr. Lewis Mardon appeared and sat down boldly next to Matthew, like a privileged friend.  After all, Mr. Mardon was better than nobody whatever, and Matthew decided to suffer him, especially as he began without preliminary skirmishing to talk about life in Paris.  An irresistible subject!  Mr. Mardon said in a worldly tone that the existence of a bachelor in Paris might easily be made agreeable.  But that, of course, for himself—­well, he preferred, as a general rule, the Pension Frensham sort of thing; and it was excellent for his business.  Still he could not ... he knew ...  He compared the advantages of what he called ‘knocking about’ in Paris, with the equivalent in London.  His information about London was out of date, and Peel-Swynnerton was able to set him right on important details.  But his information about Paris was infinitely precious and interesting to the younger man,, who saw that he had hitherto lived under strange misconceptions.

“Have a whiskey?” asked Mr. Mardon, suddenly.  “Very good here!” he added.

“Thanks!” drawled Peel-Swynnerton.

The temptation to listen to Mr. Mardon as long as Mr. Mardon would talk was not to be overcome.  And presently, when the old men had departed, they were frankly telling each other stories in the dimness of the retreat.  Then, when the supply of stories came to an end, Mr. Mardon smacked his lips over the last drop of whiskey and ejaculated:  “Yes!” as if giving a general confirmation to all that had been said.

“Do have one with me,” said Matthew, politely.  It was the least he could do.

The second supply of whiskies was brought into the Lounge by Mr. Mardon’s Marie.  He smiled on her familiarly, and remarked that he supposed she would soon be going to bed after a hard day’s work.  She gave a moue and a flounce in reply, and swished out.

“Carries herself well, doesn’t she?” observed Mr. Mardon, as though Marie had been an exhibit at an agricultural show.  “Ten years ago she was very fresh and pretty, but of course it takes it out of ’em, a place like this!”