Lemois, as was his custom, came in with the coffee. He serves it himself, and always with the same little ceremony, which, while apparently unimportant, marks that indefinable, mysterious line which he and his ancestry--innkeepers before him--have invariably maintained between those who wait and those who are waited upon. First, a small spider-legged mahogany table is wheeled up between the circle and the fire, on which Leà places a silver coffee-pot of Mignon's best; then some tiny cups and saucers, and a sugar-dish of odd design--they said it belonged to Marie Antoinette--is laid beside them. Thereupon Lemois gravely seats himself and the rite begins, he talking all the time--one of us and yet aloof--much as would a neighbor across a fence who makes himself agreeable but who has not been given the run of your house. To the group's delight, however, he was as much a part of the coterie as if he had taken the fifth chair, left vacant for the always late Marc, who had not yet put in an appearance, and a place we would have insisted upon his occupying, despite his intended isolation, but for a certain look in the calm eyes and a certain dignity of manner which forbade any such encroachments on his reserve. To-night he was especially welcome. Thanks to his watchful care we had dined well--Pierre having outdone himself in a pigeon pie--and that quiet, restful contentment which follows a good dinner, beside a warm fire and under the glow of slow-burning candles, had taken possession of us. "A wonderful pie, Lemois--a sublime, never-to-be-forgotten pie!" exclaimed Louis, voicing our sentiments. "Every one of those pigeons went straight to heaven when they died." "Ah!--it pleased you then, Monsieur Louis? I will tell Pierre--he will be so happy." "Pleased!" persisted the enthusiastic painter. "Why, I can think of no better end--no higher ambition--for a well-brought-up pigeon than being served hot in one of Pierre's pies. Tell him so for me--I am speaking as a pigeon, of course." "What do you think the pigeon himself would have said to Pierre before his neck was wrung?" asked Herbert, leaning back in his big chair. "Thank you--only one lump, Lemois." "By Jove!--why didn't I ask the bird?--it might have been illuminating--and I speak a little pigeon-English, you know. Doubtless he would have told me he preferred being riddled with shot at a match and crawling away under a hedge to die, to being treated as a common criminal--the neck-twisting part, I mean. Why do you want to know, Herbert?" "Oh, nothing; only I sometimes think--if you will forgive me for being serious--that there is another side to the whole question; though I must also send my thanks to Pierre for the pie."