“Well, I’m hanged!” said I, as we entered the _Café de Paris_. We sat down, and Arsenio ordered the best dinner that was to be had. This done, he proceeded: “You see, I’m a man who prizes his independence. In that I resemble Lucinda; it’s one of our points of union. She insists on pursuing her own occupation, and accepts an occasional present from me—such as I’ve just had the pleasure of sending her—only under protest. When I’m in funds, I insist. So with me. I also like to have my own occupation; it gives me the sense of independence that I like.” “But occasionally you have recourse to——?” His eyes sparkled at me over his glass of wine. “My dear Julius, an occasional deviation from one’s ruling principle—what is it? To err is human, to forgive divine. And since you’ve forgiven me that fifty, I shall be positively hurt if you don’t make an excellent dinner!” “It’s difficult to over value the privilege of being your guest,” I observed rather grimly. He laughed, and went on with his merry chatter. I tried to take stock of him, as I listened and threw in a remark here and there. Was he trying to deceive himself with his talk of independence, or was he merely trying to deceive me? Or was it that he did not really care a straw about deceiving either of us? He might like to puzzle me; that would be in his monkey vein. Evidently he had given none of my fifty pounds to Lucinda. Had he really sent her anything when he went into the post office this evening? And, if anything, what proportion of his “windfall”? As much as half? Did Lucinda take money from him—under protest? Or did she never get the chance? And did she give him money? If his object were to puzzle me—he did it! But I believed what he told me about his occupation; there was the evidence of his dress suit, and of Madame’s playful rebuke. Besides, it was in character with him. When he lacked the wherewithal to play himself, he would be where others played. At least he got the atmosphere. Perhaps, too, his suave manners and linguistic services were worth the price of a stake to him now and then. “Yes,” he went on, with a laugh, after describing one or two odd shifts to which he had been put, “the war may have paid my dear adopted country all right—_sacro egoismo_, you know, Julius!—but it played the devil with me. Zeppelins and ‘planes over Venice! All the tenants bolted from my _palazzo_, and forgot to leave the rent behind them. Up to now they’ve not come back. Hence this temporary fall in my fortunes. But it’ll all come right.” “It won’t, if you go on gambling with any money that you happen to get hold of.” He became serious; at least, I think so. At all events, he looked serious.