er to go out."

"Most assuredly."

"Not at any fashionable place, Monsieur Jean----"

"Oh, no; is there any such place in the quarter?" he laughingly asked.

"Can't we go over on the other side?"

"Yes, my child, certainly."

"I know a place in Montmartre where one may dine en fete for two
francs and a half, cafe compris." She was getting on her things, and
for the first time was conscious of the hole in the heel of her
stocking.

"There is the Cafe de Paris----"

"Oh! it is five francs!" she exclaimed.

"Well, one may dine better on five francs than two and a half."

"It is too dear, Monsieur Jean."

"Then there is the Hotel du Louvre table-d'hote, four francs,--very
good, too."

"It is too fashionable,--too many Americans."

"Parbleu! one can be an American for one meal, can he not? They say
Americans live well in their own country. They have meat three times a
day,--even the poorest laborers."

"And eat meat for breakfast,--it is horrible!"

"Yes,--they are savages."

After discussing the various places and finding that his ideas of a
good dining-place were somewhat more enlarged than her ideas, Mlle.
Fouchette finally brought him down to a Bouillon in Boule'
Miche',--the student appellation for Boulevard St. Michel. She would
have preferred any other quarter of the city, though not earnestly
enough to stand out for it.

They settled on the Cafe Weber, opposite the ancient College
d'Harcourt, a place of the Bouillon order, with innumerable dishes
graded up from twenty centimes to a franc and an additional charge of
ten centimes for the use of a napkin.

Wine aside, a better meal for less money can be had in a score of
places on Broadway. In the matter of wine, the New York to the Paris
price would be as a dollar to the franc.

In the Quartier Latin these places are patronized almost exclusively
by the student class. Not less than fifty of the latter were at table
in the Cafe Weber when Jean Marot and Mlle. Fouchette entered. Here
and there among them were a few grisettes and as many cocottes of the
Cafe d'Harcourt, costumes en bicyclette, demure, hungry, and silent.
Young women in smart caps and white aprons briskly served the tables,
while in the centre, in a sort of enclosed pulpit, sat the handsome,
rosy-faced dame du comptoir, with a sharp eye for employes and a
winning smile and nod for familiar customers.

There was a perceptible sensation upon the entrance of the last
comers. A mome