her being where she was "awful." It was because of what he had said
that I had come, as a sort of last chance, a forlorn hope. Of course she
would not be here, a hired singer in a Paris night restaurant; that was
impossible.

How impossible it was likely to be I realized more fully during the
next hour. There was nothing particularly "awful" about L'Abbaye of
itself--at first, nor, perhaps, even later; at least the awfulness was
well covered. The program of entertainment was awful enough, if deadly
mediocrity is awful. A big darkey, dressed in a suit which reminded me
of the "end man" at an old-time minstrel show, sang "My Alabama Coon,"
accompanying himself, more or less intimately, on the banjo. I could
have heard the same thing, better done, at a ten cent theater in the
States, where this chap had doubtless served an apprenticeship. However,
the audience, which was growing larger every minute, seemed to find the
bellowing enjoyable and applauded loudly. Then a feminine person did a
Castilian dance between the tables. I was ready to declare a second war
with Spain when she had finished. Then there was an orchestral interval,
during which the tables filled.

The impossibility of Frances singing in a place like this became more
certain each minute, to my mind. I called the waiter.

"Does Mademoiselle Juno sing here this evening?" I asked, in my lame
French.

He shook his head. "Non, Monsieur," he answered, absently, and hastened
on with the bottle he was carrying.

Apparently that settled it. I might as well go. Then I decided to remain
a little longer. After all, I was there, and I, or Heathcroft, might
have misunderstood the name. I would stay for a while.

The long table at which I sat was now occupied from end to end. There
were several couples, male and female, and a number of unattached
young ladies, well-dressed, pretty for the most part, and vivacious
and inclined to be companionable. They chatted with their neighbors and
would have chatted with me if I had been in the mood. For the matter of
that everyone talked with everyone else, in French or English, good, bad
and indifferent, and there was much laughter and gaiety. L'Abbaye was
wide awake by this time.

The bearded personage who had shown me to my seat, appeared, followed
by a dozen attendants bearing paper parasols and bags containing little
celluloid balls, red, white, and blue. They were distributed among the
feminine guests. The parasols, it dev