“No heartache this morning, Oswald?” The young man envied them as they pulled their fan-shaped beards and sipped their vermouth-citron. They were in key with the cosmos and he was not. “Neither one nor the other,” he absently replied. “But is not Miss Tilney a charmer? I saw you looking at her the entire evening. Come now, say?” Harry Hollin spoke with enthusiasm. Invern slowly shook his head and he continued to gaze down the Boulevard de Vaugirard. The café stood at the meeting of this boulevard and the Place du Maine, across from the Gare Mont-Parnasse. The Avenue du Maine intersected the Place and, while beyond lay the choicer precincts of the Quarter, there was no spot on the “left bank” that was gayer in silent weather or duller when the rain fell. This particular morning the sky reported a delicate pigeon-blue, a nuance that occasionally may be seen in Paris after a storm; it had withdrawn above the housetops and was immeasurably far away; a melochromatic horizon was tinged with flushes of pink and ochre. The twins followed Oswald’s eyes and boiled over ecstatically: “What tones!” cried Harry. “I could model them in precious gems!” exclaimed his brother. “There you go, with your atelier slang,” muttered their companion. “I’ve been in Paris ten years longer than you and you beat me as a Frenchman.” “Ça ne biche pas?” Harry continued. “It’s lovely.” “Oui, c’est kif--kif!” chimed his brother. Invern watched them, the echo of a smile sounding across his compressed lips. He was not more than twenty-eight; a slender figure proclaimed his youth. The head was well set on his shoulders. It was the expression of his frowning forehead and large, dark, heavy eyes that made the man look much older. Not dissipation, rather discontent, marred features of a Byzantine type. Yes, he had been thirteen years in Paris and these foolish good-hearted fellows only three; but they knew the argot of the Beaux-Arts better than he, and they openly boasted their anti-Americanism. He asked them: “Frankly, what are you going to do with yourselves in America--when you get there?” They answered in happy unison: “Make money.” He shook his head. “Make money by selling tombstones--that’s you, Willy!--and painting society dames in impossible attitudes, tints, and expressions--that’s you, Harry.” “Never mind us, Invern. You may never go, but if you do--a comic opera with a howling success is our wish.” “I’ll never return--now,” said Invern. “The cursed microbe of artistic Paris is in my system. And, what’s more, I’ll never do anything. When a Yankee comes over here to paint he tries to paint like a Frenchman. Look at the three Salons with their half-baked imitations. Let me finish”--the brothers had lifted angry shoulders--“and if a Yankee studies music here he composes French music ever afterward--French music which is a sad mixture of German and Italian; eclectic style, the wise ones call it.” “And if he goes to Germany?” demanded Harry.