“Coffee is my tipple,” said the other, in a faint voice. “All right; suit yourself. But I should think that rather hot for such a day.” “Oh, I’ll take it iced.” “Then let us walk over to the Café by the bandstand. We shall find the others somewhere about.” They strolled through the grove, past the music-stand, and sat down at one of the little iron tables under the trees. The band of the Garde Republicaine was playing. Bulfinch ordered sugar and Eau de selz for Braith, and iced coffee for himself. Braith looked at the program: No. 1, Faust; No. 2, La Belle Hélène. “Rex ought to be here, he’s so fond of that.” Mr Bulfinch was mixing, in a surprisingly scientific manner for a man who didn’t drink himself, something which the French call a “coquetelle”; a bit of ice, a little seltzer, a slice of lemon, and some Canadian Club whiskey. Braith eyed the well-worn flask. “I see you don’t trust to the Café’s supplies.” “I only keep this for medicinal purposes,” said the other, blinking nervously, “and—and I don’t usually produce it when there are any newspapermen around.” “But you,” said Braith, sipping the mixture with relish, “do you take none yourself?” “I don’t drink,” said the other, and swallowed his coffee in such a hurry as to bring on a fit of coughing. Beads of perspiration clustered above his canary-colored eyebrows as he set down the glass with a gasp. Braith was watching the crowd. Presently he exclaimed: “There’s Rex now,” and rising, waved his glass and his cane and called Gethryn’s name. The people sitting at adjacent tables glanced at one another resignedly. “More crazy English!” “Rex! Clifford!” Braith shouted, until at last they heard him. In a few moments they had made their way through the crowd and sat down, mopping their faces and protesting plaintively against the heat. Gethryn’s glance questioned Braith, who said, “Mr Bulfinch and I have had the deuce of a time to make you fellows hear. You’d have been easier to call if you knew what sort of drink he can brew.” Clifford was already sniffing knowingly at the glass and turning looks of deep intelligence on Bulfinch, who responded gayly, “Hope you’ll have some too,” and with a sidelong blink at Gethryn, he produced the bottle, saying, “I don’t drink myself, as Mr Gethryn knows.” Rex said, “Certainly not,” not knowing what else to say. But the fondness of Clifford’s gaze was ineffable. Braith, who always hated to see Clifford look like that, turned to Gethryn. “Favorite of yours on the program.” Rex looked. “Oh,” he cried, “Belle Hélène.” Next moment he flushed, and feeling as if the others saw it, crimsoned all the deeper. This escaped Clifford, however, who was otherwise occupied. But he joined in the conversation, hoping for an argument. “Braith and Rex go in for the Meistersinger, Walküre, and all that rot—but I like some tune to my music.”