In the dull grey light of the short and swiftly waning winter’s day, the two young men were leaving the museum, to spend the rest of the afternoon until the time of their appointed meeting with the women, in drink and talk at one of the innumerable and seductive cafés of the magic city. Outside the Louvre, they hailed a taxi and were driven swiftly over one of the bridges of the Seine, through the narrow streets of the Latin Quarter, and at length stopped and got out before La Closerie des Lilas, where they were to meet the two women later on.

They spent the remainder of the afternoon in the chill wintry air of the terrace, warm with drink, with argument or discussion, and with the gaiety of life and voices of people all around them, the pageant of life that passed for ever on the street before them — all that priceless, rare, and uncostly pleasure and excitement of café life which seemed unbelievable and magical to these two young Americans. The dull grey air, which was at once chill and wintry, and yet languorous, filled them with the sense of some powerful, strange, and inhuman excitement that was impending for them.

And the bright gaiety of the colours, the constant flash and play of life about them and along the pavements, the smell and potent intoxication of the cognac, gave them the sensation of a whole world given over without reserve or shame to pleasure. All these elements, together with that incomparable fusion of odours — at once corrupt and sensual, subtle and obscene — which exudes from the very texture of the Paris life — odours which it is impossible to define exactly but which seem in the dull wintry air to be compacted of the smells of costly perfumes, of wine, beer, brandy, and of the acrid and nostalgic fumes of French tobacco, of roasted chestnuts, black French coffee, mysterious liquors of a hundred brilliant and intoxicating colours, and the luxurious flesh of scented women — smote the two young men instantly with the sensual impact of this strange and fascinating world.

But in spite of all the magic of the scene, and the assurance and security which Starwick’s presence always gave to him, the ghost of the old unquiet doubt would not wholly be laid at rest, the ache of the old hunger stirred in Eugene. Why was he here now? Why had he come? The lack of purpose in this present life, the dozing indolence of this existence in which no one worked, in which they sat constantly at tables in a café, and ate and drank and talked, and moved on to sit at other tables, other cafés — and, most of all, the strange dull faces of the Frenchmen, the strange and alien life of this magic city which was so seductive but so unalterably foreign to all that he had ever known — all this had now begun to weigh inexplicably upon a troubled spirit, to revive again the old feelings of naked homelessness, to stir in him the nameless sense of shame and guilt which an American feels at a life of indolence and pleasure, which is part of the very chemistry of his blood, and which he can never root out of him. And feeling the obscure but powerful insistence of these troubled thoughts within his mind, he turned suddenly to Starwick, and without a word of explanation said:

“But do you really feel at home here?”

“What do you mean by ‘feeling at home’?”

“Well, I mean don’t you ever feel out of place here? Don’t you ever feel as if you didn’t belong to this life — that you are a foreigner?”

“But not at all!” said Starwick a trifle impatiently. “On the contrary, I think it is the first time in my life that I have NOT felt like a foreigner. I never felt at home in the Middle–West where I was born; I hated the place from my earliest childhood, I always felt out of place there, and wanted to get away from it. But I felt instantly at home in Paris from the moment I got here:— I am far closer to this life than to any other life I’ve ever known, for the first time in my life I feel thoroughly at home.”

“And you don’t mind being a foreigner?”

“But of course not!” Starwick said curtly. “Besides, I am NOT a foreigner. You can only be foreign in a place that is foreign to you. This place is not.”

“But, after all, Frank, you are not a Frenchman. You are an American.”

“Not at all,” Starwick answered concisely. “I am an American only by the accident of birth; by spirit, temperament, inclination, I have always been a European.”

“And you mean you could continue to lead this kind of life without ever growing tired of it?”

“What do you mean by ‘this kind of life’?” said Starwick.

His friend nodded towards the crowded and noisy terrace of the café.

“I mean sitting around at cafés all day long, going to night-clubs — eating, drinking, sitting — moving on from one place to another — spending your life that way.”

“Do you think it’s such a bad way to spend your life?” said Starwick quietly. He turned, regarding his friend with serious eyes. “Don’t you find it very amusing?”

“Yes, Frank, for a time. But after a while, don’t you think you’d get tired of it?”

“No more tired,” said Starwick, “than I would of going to an office day after day at nine o’clock and coming away at five, doing useless and dreary work that someone else could do as well. On the contrary, this kind of life —” he nodded towards the crowded tables —“seems to me much more interesting and amusing.”

“But how can you feel that you belong to it?” the other said. “I should think that would make a difference to you. It does to me — the feeling that I am a stranger here, that this is not my life, that I know none of these people.”

“Are you getting ready to tell me now that an American never really gets to know any French people?” said Starwick, repeating the banal phrase with a quiet sarcasm that brought a flush to the other’s face.

“Well, it’s not likely that he will, from what I’ve heard.”

Starwick cast a weary look around him at the chattering group of people at the other tables.

“God!” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t think he’d want to. I imagine most of them are about as dull a lot as you could find.”

“If you feel that way about them, what is the great attraction Paris holds for you? How can you possibly feel that way about the people and still say you feel at home here?”

“Because Paris belongs to the world — to Europe — more than it belongs to France. One does not come here because he wants to know the French: he comes because he can find here the most pleasant, graceful and civilized life on earth.”

“Yes, but there are other things that may be more important than leading a graceful and pleasant life.”

“What, for instance?” said Starwick, looking at him.

“Getting your work done is one of them. For you, I should think that would be a great deal more important.”

Starwick was again silent; the old bestial grimace, image of an unutterable anguish and conf............