Platonic nature, Captain Courtier?"

"I cannot say. He is quite capable of marrying her."

"Probably he knows his own mind," Paul murmured absently.

"Quite probably; but does he know hers?" asked Thessaly. "I always think
this so important in London although it may not matter in Paris. Some
infatuations are like rare orchids. A certain youth of Cnidus fell in
love with a statue of Aphrodite, and my secretary, Caspar, has fallen in
love with Gaby Deslys. Apollonius of Tyana cured the Cnidian youth, but
what hope is there for Caspar? My nightly prayer is that he may find the
courage to shave his side-whiskers and renounce the passionate life--a
second Plato burning his poems."

* * * * *

Paul became absorbed in contemplation of the unique turmoil about him.
The excitement created by his entrance had somewhat subsided and the
various groups in the cafe had resumed their respective characteristics.
The place was seething with potential things; the pressure of force
might be felt. At a centre table a party of musicians talked excitedly,
one of them, a pale young man with feline eyes, shouting hoarsely and
continuously. Well-known painters were there, illustrating the fact that
many a successful artist patronises a cheap tailor. There was a large
blonde woman who smoked incessantly as she walked from table to table.
She seemed to have an extensive circle of acquaintances. And there was a
small dark girl with eyes feverishly bright who watched her; and
whenever the glances of the twain met, the big woman glared and the
small one sneered and showed her white teeth. A little fat man with a
large fat notebook sat near the door apparently engaged in compiling a
history of some kind and paying no attention whatever to a tall thin man
who persistently interrupted him by ordering refreshments. The little
fat man absently emptied glass after glass; his powers of absorption
were remarkable.

There were models with pale faces and short fabulous hair surrounding a
celebrated figure-painter who was said to have seven wives named after
the days of the week, and there were soldiers who looked like poets and
artists who looked like soldiers. A sculptor who had discovered the
secret of making ugliness out of beauty and selling it, was deep in
conversation with an author of shocking mysteries whose fame rested
largely upon his creation of the word "beetlesque" and the appearance of
a certain blue-faced ou