And now there was luncheon at Foyot’s, a little restaurant near the Luxembourg and the Musée de Cluny, where the wise in the matter of food love to dine and where, as usual, Barfleur was at his best. The French, while discarding show in many instances entirely, and allowing their restaurant chambers to look as though they had been put together with an effort, nevertheless attain a perfection of atmosphere which is astonishing. For the life of me I could not tell why this little restaurant seemed so bright, for there was nothing smart about it when you examined it in detail; and so I was compelled to attribute this impression to the probably all-pervading temperament of the owner. Always, in these cases, there is a man (or a woman) quite remarkable for his point of view. Otherwise you could not take such simple appointments and make them into anything so pleasing and so individual. A luncheon which had been ordered by telephone was now served; and at the beginning of its gastronomic wonders Mr. McG. and Miss N. arrived. I shall not soon forget the interesting temperaments of these two; for even more than great institutions, persons who come reasonably close to you make up the atmosphere of a city. Mr. McG. was a solid, sandy, steady-eyed Scotchman who looked as though, had he not been an artist, he might have been a kilted soldier, swinging along with the enviable Scotch stride. Miss N. was a delightfully Parisianized American, without the slightest affectation, however, so far as I could make out, of either speech or manner. She was pleasingly good-looking, with black hair, a healthy, rounded face and figure, and a cheerful, good-natured air. There was no sense of either that aggressiveness or superiority which so often characterizes the female artist. We launched at once upon a discussion of Paris, London and New York and upon the delights of Paris and the progress of the neo-impressionist cult. I could see plainly that these two did not care to force their connection with that art development on my attention; but I was interested to know of it. There was something so solid and self-reliant about Mr. McG. that before the meal was over I had taken a fancy to him. He had the least suggestion of a Scotch burr in his voice which might have said “awaw” instead of away and “doon” instead of down; but it resulted in nothing so broad as that. They immediately gave me lists of restaurants that I must see in the Latin Quarter and asked me to come with them to the Café d’Harcourt and to Bullier’s to dance and to some of the brasseries to see what they were like. Between two and three Mr. McG. left because of an errand, and Barfleur and I accompanied Miss N. to her studio close by the gardens of the Luxembourg. This public garden which, not unlike the Tuileries on the other side of the Seine, was set with charming statues, embellished by a magnificent fountain, and alive with French nursemaids and their charges, idling Parisians in cutaways