One of the things that seriously impressed me was the never-failing singing air of the city which was everywhere; and another the peculiarly moody atmosphere of the cemetery of Père-Lachaise--that wonderful world of celebrated dead--who crowd each other like the residents of a narrow city and who make a veritable fanfare of names. What a world! One whole day I idled here over the tombs of Balzac, Daudet, De Musset, Chopin, Rachel, Abélard and Héloise--a long, long list of celebrities. My brain fairly reeled with the futility of life--and finally I came away immensely sad. Another day I visited Versailles and all its splendor with one of the most interesting and amusing Americans I met abroad, a publisher by the name of H----, who regaled me with his own naïve experiences. I fairly choked at times over his quaint, slangy, amusing comments on things as when at Versailles, in the chambers of Marie Antoinette, he discovered a small secret stair only to remark, “There’s where Louis XVI took a sneak often enough no doubt,” or on one of the towers of Notre Dame when to a third person who was present he commented, “There’s your gargoyles, old sox!” Think of the artistic irreverence of it! Concerning a group of buildings which related to the Beaux-Arts I believe he inquired, “What’s the bunch of stuff to the right?” and so it went. But the beauty of Versailles--its stately artificiality!--how it all comes back. After two weeks in which I enjoyed myself as much as I ever hope to, studying out the charm and color of Paris for myself, Barfleur returned fresh, interested, ready for the Riviera, ready for more of Paris, ready indeed for anything, I said to myself once more, when I saw him--and I was very glad to see him indeed. The personality of Barfleur supplies a homey quality of comfortable companionship. He is so full of a youthful zest to live, and so keen after the shows and customs of the world. I have never pondered why he is so popular with women, or that his friends in different walks of life constitute so great a company. He seems to have known thousands of all sorts, and to be at home under all conditions. That persistent, unchanging atmosphere of “All is well with me,” to maintain which is as much a duty as a tradition with him, makes his presence a constant delight. We were soon joined by a small party of friends thereafter: Sir Scorp, who was bound for an extended stay on the Riviera, a sociologist, who was abroad on an important scientific investigation, and the representative of an American publishing house, who was coming to Paris to waylay Mr. Morgan Shuster, late of Persia, and secure his book. This goodly company descended upon the Hotel Normandy late one Friday afternoon; and it was planned that a party of the whole was to be organized the following night to dine at the Café de Paris and then to make a round of the lesser known and more picturesque of Parisian resorts.