g and earnestly.

And lastly Monsieur Spencer, the English journalist, also with a black
cross after his name, but seemingly altogether unconscious of it.

Monsieur Albert was not altogether at his best. Such a mixture of sheep
and goats confused him. It was the Vicomte who, together with the head
waiter, arranged a redistribution of tables so that the whole party
could sit together. It was the Vicomte who constituted himself host. He
summoned Monsieur Albert to him.

"Albert," he said, with a little wave of the hand, "these ladies and
gentlemen are my friends. To quote the words of my charming young
companion here, Monsieur Guy Poynton, whom you may possibly
remember"--Monsieur Albert bowed--"we are on the bust! I do not know the
precise significance of the phrase any more than I suppose you do, but
it means amongst other things a desire for the best you have to eat and
to drink. Bring Pomeroy '92, Albert, and send word to your chef that we
desire to eat without being hungry!"

Monsieur Albert hurried away, glad of the opportunity to escape. Guy
leaned back in his chair and looked around with interest.

"Same old place," he remarked, "and by Jove, there's the young lady from
Austria."

The young lady from Austria paid her bill and departed somewhat hastily.
The Vicomte smiled.

"I think we shall frighten a few of them away to-night!" he remarked.
"The wine! Good! We shall need magnums to drown our regrets, if indeed
our English friends desert us to-morrow. Monsieur Guy Poynton,
unconscious maker of history and savior of your country, I congratulate
you upon your whole skin, and I drink your health."

Guy drank, and, laughing, refilled his glass.

"And to you, the best of amateur conspirators and most charming of
hosts," he said. "Come soon to England and bring your automobile, and we
will conspire against you with a policeman and a stopwatch."

The Vicomte sighed and glanced towards Phyllis.

"In happier circumstances!" he murmured, and then catching the
Marquise's eye, he was silent.

The band played English music, and the chef sent them up a wonderful
omelette. Mademoiselle Ermine, from the Folies Bergeres, danced in the
small space between the tables, and the Vicomte, buying a cluster of
pink roses from the flower-girl, sent them across to her with a diamond
pin in the ribbon. The Marquise rebuked him half seriously, but he only
laughed.

"To-night," he said, "is the end of a great adventure. We amat