His eyes swung sharply to the right. The party of four had become so riotous that the head-waiter had approached and spoken to them. Caroline was arguing with this head-waiter in a raised voice, a voice so clear and young that it seemed as though the whole restaurant would listen--the whole restaurant except Olive Masters, self-absorbed in her new secret. “How do you do?” Caroline was saying. “Probably the handsomest head-waiter in captivity. Too much noise? Very unfortunate. Something’ll have to be done about it. Gerald”--she addressed the man on her right--“the head-waiter says there’s too much noise. Appeals to us to have it stopped. What’ll I say?” “Sh!” remonstrated Gerald, with laughter. “Sh!” and Merlin heard him add in an undertone: “All the bourgeoisie will be aroused. This is where the floorwalkers learn French.” Caroline sat up straight in sudden alertness. “Where’s a floorwalker?” she cried. “Show me a floorwalker.” This seemed to amuse the party, for they all, including Caroline, burst into renewed laughter. The head-waiter, after a last conscientious but despairing admonition, became Gallic with his shoulders and retired into the background. Pulpat’s, as every one knows, has the unvarying respectability of the table d’hôte. It is not a gay place in the conventional sense. One comes, drinks the red wine, talks perhaps a little more and a little louder than usual under the low, smoky ceilings, and then goes home. It closes up at nine-thirty, tight as a drum; the policeman is paid off and given an extra bottle of wine for the missis, the coat-room girl hands her tips to the collector, and then darkness crushes the little round tables out of sight and life. But excitement was prepared for Pulpat’s this evening--excitement of no mean variety. A girl with russet, purple-shadowed hair mounted to her table-top and began to dance thereon. “_Sacré nom de Dieu!_ Come down off there!” cried the head-waiter. “Stop that music!” But the musicians were already playing so loud that they could pretend not to hear his order; having once been young, they played louder and gayer than ever, and Caroline danced with grace and vivacity, her pink, filmy dress swirling about her, her agile arms playing in supple, tenuous gestures along the smoky air. A group of Frenchmen at a table near by broke into cries of applause, in which other parties joined--in a moment the room was full of clapping and shouting; half the diners were on their feet, crowding up, and on the outskirts the hastily summoned proprietor was giving indistinct vocal evidences of his desire to put an end to this thing as quickly as possible. “... Merlin!” cried Olive, awake, aroused at last; “she’s such a wicked girl! Let’s get out--now!” The fascinated Merlin protested feebly that the check was not paid. “It’s all right. Lay five dollars on the table. I despise that girl. I can’t _bear_ to look at her.” She was on her feet now, tagging at Merlin’s arm.