"Then sit down and have something with us," said Davison, cordially. "Streeter, this is my friend Harmon. He is an exile and a resident in Paris, and, consequently, likes to meet his countrymen." "In that case," said Streeter, "he is probably well acquainted with the customs of the place?" "Rather!" returned Davison; "he has become so much of a Frenchman--he has been so contaminated, if I may put it that way--that I believe quite recently he was either principal or second in a duel. By the way, which was it, Harmon?" "Merely a second," answered the other. "I don't believe in duelling myself," continued Davison: "it seems to me an idiotic custom, and so futile." "I don't agree with you," replied Streeter, curtly; "there is no reason why a duel should be futile, and there seem to be many reasons why a duel might be fought. There are many things, worse than crimes, which exist in all countries, and for which there is no remedy except calling a man out; misdemeanors, if I may so term them, that the law takes no cognisance of; treachery, for instance;--a person pretending to be a man's friend, and then the first chance he gets, stabbing him in the back." Harmon nodded his approval of these sentiments, while Davison said jauntily: "Oh, I don't know about that! It seems to me these things, which I suppose undoubtedly exist, should not be made important by taking much notice of them. What will you have to drink, Streeter?" "Bring me a liqueur of brandy," said Streeter to the garcon who stood ready to take the order. When the waiter returned with a small glass, into which he poured the brandy with the deftness of a Frenchman, filling it so that not a drop more could be added, and yet without allowing the glass to overflow, Streeter pulled out his purse. "No, no!" cried Davison; "you are not going to pay for this--you are drinking with me." "I pay for my own drinks," said Streeter, surlily. "Not when I invite you to drink with me," protested the critic. "I pay for this brandy." "Very well, take it, then!" said Streeter, picking up the little glass and dashing the contents in the face of Davison. Davison took out his handkerchief. "What the devil do you mean by that, Streeter?" he asked, as the color mounted to his brow. Streeter took out his card and pencilled a word or two on the pasteboard. "There," he said, "is my Paris address. If you do not know what I mean by that, ask your friend here; he will inform you." And with that the novelist arose, bowed to the two, and departed. When he returned to his hotel, after a stroll along the brilliantly- lighted Boulevards, he found waiting for him Mr. Harmon and a Frenchman. "I had no idea you would come so soon," said Streeter, "otherwise I would not have kept you waiting."