“Tommy,” he said, “I see you haven’t changed an atom. You’re the very same serious person that used to lecture me on Sunday mornings when I had a sore head and a fur on my tongue. You’d want to knock about a bit in the world. Have you never been anywhere even for a trip?” “I’ve been to the Isle of Man,” said Little Chandler. Ignatius Gallaher laughed. “The Isle of Man!” he said. “Go to London or Paris: Paris, for choice. That’d do you good.” “Have you seen Paris?” “I should think I have! I’ve knocked about there a little.” “And is it really so beautiful as they say?” asked Little Chandler. He sipped a little of his drink while Ignatius Gallaher finished his boldly. “Beautiful?” said Ignatius Gallaher, pausing on the word and on the flavour of his drink. “It’s not so beautiful, you know. Of course, it is beautiful.... But it’s the life of Paris; that’s the thing. Ah, there’s no city like Paris for gaiety, movement, excitement....” Little Chandler finished his whisky and, after some trouble, succeeded in catching the barman’s eye. He ordered the same again. “I’ve been to the Moulin Rouge,” Ignatius Gallaher continued when the barman had removed their glasses, “and I’ve been to all the Bohemian cafés. Hot stuff! Not for a pious chap like you, Tommy.” Little Chandler said nothing until the barman returned with two glasses: then he touched his friend’s glass lightly and reciprocated the former toast. He was beginning to feel somewhat disillusioned. Gallaher’s accent and way of expressing himself did not please him. There was something vulgar in his friend which he had not observed before. But perhaps it was only the result of living in London amid the bustle and competition of the Press. The old personal charm was still there under this new gaudy manner. And, after all, Gallaher had lived, he had seen the world. Little Chandler looked at his friend enviously. “Everything in Paris is gay,” said Ignatius Gallaher. “They believe in enjoying life—and don’t you think they’re right? If you want to enjoy yourself properly you must go to Paris. And, mind you, they’ve a great feeling for the Irish there. When they heard I was from Ireland they were ready to eat me, man.” Little Chandler took four or five sips from his glass. “Tell me,” he said, “is it true that Paris is so ... immoral as they say?” Ignatius Gallaher made a catholic gesture with his right arm. “Every place is immoral,” he said. “Of course you do find spicy bits in Paris. Go to one of the students’ balls, for instance. That’s lively, if you like, when the _cocottes_ begin to let themselves loose. You know what they are, I suppose?” “I’ve heard of them,” said Little Chandler. Ignatius Gallaher drank off his whisky and shook his head. “Ah,” he said, “you may say what you like. There’s no woman like the Parisienne—for style, for go.” “Then it is an immoral city,” said Little Chandler, with timid insistence—“I mean, compared with London or Dublin?”