The visitor's face dropped. "Not till _Thursday_!" he cried, as though that date were in the next century. "I was hoping you could go right back with me now. I've got a taxi waiting downstairs." The Frenchman's face wore for an instant a look of consternation which changed into a rather curious, strained expression. Then he said with the accent of heroism, laughing a little, "Yes, Mr. Hale, there is really no valid reason for my not going with you now, _at this instant_, and I will!" He seemed to regard the resolution as an extraordinary one, adding whimsically, as he put on his overcoat, "Ah, you can never, never understand, my dear Mr. Hale, the awful effort of will it costs a European to do something the moment it is suggested instead of putting it off till the next week." "No," said the American heartily, "that's something I never will understand." * * * * * As they approached the shining windows of the pharmacy, where as a matter of fact a big, beautifully cared-for cat was sleeping in the sun, the Frenchman exclaimed: "Oh, it's Monsieur Réquine's pharmacy! I've known him for years, ever since my sister came to live in Versailles. I didn't think it could be he because you spoke of him always as old." "Isn't he?" asked the American. "Fifty-two. Is that old? I hope not." "Fifty-two! I'm fifty-four myself! That's one on me!" "What made you think him old? His hair isn't white. He hasn't any wrinkles. Really, I'm curious to know." The American stopped on the curbstone, pondering, his alert mind interested by the little problem in self-analysis. "What _did_ make me, I wonder?" He glanced in through the open door and said: "Well, just look at him as he stands there, his hands clasped over his stomach,--you can see for yourself. It's a kind of settled-down-to-stay look that I'm not used to seeing unless a man is so old that he can't move on any more." The Frenchman looked at the druggist and then at the man beside him. "Yes, I see what you mean," he admitted. He said it with a sigh. They entered the shop. The druggist came forward with a smile, and shook hands heartily with them both. "Eleven," noted the American mentally. "Monsieur Réquine," said the French visitor, "can't we go through into your salon, or perhaps out into your garden for a little talk?" Mr. Réquine glowed with hospitality. "Yes, yes, delighted. I'll just ask my wife to step here to mind the shop." "_His wife!_" asked the American, "to wait on customers?" A well-dressed, tall, full-bosomed woman of forty-odd, with elaborately dressed black hair and a much powdered, intelligent face came in answer to the call and installed herself back of the counter with her knitting.