se, which, after all, divides itself more or less
into stories in more ways than one. He opened his window and let in the
June morning, serene and lovely. It shone on him over chimney-pots and
many roofs and slender towers in the far distance. He heard the dim
noise of the streets. He had gone as far in his toilet as mixing the
shaving water, when the valet returned with a tray and presented Fairfax
with his first "petit dejeuner" in France. The young man thought it
tempting--butter in a golden pat, with a flower stamped on it. The
little rolls and something about the appearance of the little meal
suggested his New Orleans home--he half looked to see a dusky face beam
on him--"Massa Tony, chile"--and the vines at the window.

"Voici, Monsieur." Alphonse indicated the bromide. "I think everything
is here." The intelligent servant had perceived the crushed silk hat in
the corner and gave a little cough behind his hand.

Fairfax, six feet and more in his stockings, blond and good to look at,
his bright humour, his charm, his soft Creole accent, pleased Alphonse.

"I see Monsieur has not unpacked his things. If I can serve Monsieur he
has only to ask me." Alphonse picked up the opera hat, straightened it
out and looked at it. "Shall I hang this up, Monsieur?"

"Do, behind the door, Alphonse."

The man did so and withdrew, and no sooner his rapid, light footsteps
patted down the hall-way than Fairfax eagerly seated himself before his
breakfast and poured out his excellent cafe au lait. The door was softly
pushed in again, shut to and locked--the dissipated young gentleman
seemed extremely partial to locked doors--and Fairfax's companion of the
night before said in an undertone----

"Go slow, nobody in the hotel knows I'm in it."

Fairfax, who was not going slow over his breakfast, indicated the opera
hat behind the door and the bromide.

"Hurrah for you and Alphonse," exclaimed the young fellow, who prepared
himself a pick-me-up eagerly, and without invitation seated himself at
Fairfax's table.

A good-looking young man of twenty-five, not more, with a cheerful,
intelligent face in sober moments, now pale, with parched lips and eyes
not clear yet. He had washed and his hair was smoothly brushed. He had
no regularity of features such as Fairfax, being a well-set-up, ordinary
young fellow, such as one might see in any American college or
university. But there was a fineness in the lines of his mouth, a
drollery and w