Now the accomplished story-teller would look forward to this restaurant; already his thoughts would fix themselves on a _cabinet particulier_, and his fancy, if he were a naturalistic writer, would rejoice in recording the fact that the mirror was scrawled over with names of lovers, and he would select the ugliest names. But, dear reader, if you are expecting a _cabinet particulier_ in this story, and an amorous encounter to take place therein, turn the page at once--you will be disappointed if you do not; this story contains nothing that will shock your--shall I say your "prudish susceptibilities"? When the auburn-haired poet and the corn-coloured American lunched at Vincennes they chose a table by the window in the great long _salle_ lined with tables, and they were attended by an army of waiters weary of their leisure. There was a lake at Vincennes then, I am sure, with an island upon it and tall saplings, through which the morning sun was shining. The eyes of the lovers admired the scene, and they admired too the pretty reflections, and the swans moving about the island. The accomplished story-teller cries, "But if there is to be no scene in the restaurant, how is the story to finish?" Why should stories finish? And would a sensual _dénouement_ be a better end than, let us say, that the lovers are caught in a shower as they leave the restaurant? Such an accident might have happened: nothing is more likely than a shower at the end of April or the beginning of May, and I can imagine the lovers of Vincennes rushing into one of the _concierge's_ lodges at the gates of the villas. "For a few minutes," they say; "the rain will be over soon." But they are not long there when a servant appears carrying three umbrellas; she gives one to Marie, one to me; she keeps one for herself. "But who is she? You told me you knew no one at Vincennes." "No more I do." "But you must know the people who live here; the servant says that Monsieur (meaning her master) knows Monsieur (meaning you)." "I swear to you I don't know anybody here; but let's go--it will be rather fun." "But what shall we say in explanation? Shall we say we're cousins?" "Nobody believes in cousins; shall we say we're husband and wife?" The dreamer sees two figures; memory reflects them like a convex mirror, reducing them to a tenth their original size, but he sees them clearly, and he follows them through the rain up the steps of the villa to the _perron_--an explicit word that the English language lacks. The young man continues to protest that he never was at Vincennes before, that he knows no one living there, and they are both a little excited by the adventure. Who can be the owner of the house? A man of ordinary tastes, it would seem, and while waiting for their host the lovers examine the Turkey carpet, the richly upholstered sofas and chairs.