“Bien, Monsieur.” “Salade romaine.” “Bien, Monsieur.” “Vouvray.” “Bien, Monsieur.” I turned to her. She had corn-flower eyes like Kitty--I had been wondering of whom I was reminded. I passed her my cigarette-case. She chose one fastidiously and tilted it between her lips with the smile of a _gamine_. While we ate neither of us said much--she was hungry; but, as we sipped our coffee and the pile of cigarette ends grew, I found myself telling her--asking her if a man had refused her once, whether she could ever again love him. “If he haf a great heart, oui. If he haf not----” She threw her cigarette away. “C’est la vie! Quoi?” She snapped her fingers and leant over and took my hand, this gay little Montmartroise. “But you haf; zo courage, my friend.” I did not want to be left alone; she knew it. A _fiacre_, with a battered race-horse propped between the shafts, had drawn up against the curb. On the box a red-faced _cocher_ nodded. We climbed in and she nestled beside me. The _cocher_ looked across his shoulder, asking where to drive. “Straight on,” I told him. We crawled away down “the mountain”; as we went, she sang contentedly just above her breath. When we reached the Madeleine the _cocher_ halted, inquiring gruffly whither he should drive. “Tout droit. Tout droit”; we both cried impatiently. So again we moved slowly forward. There was no doubt in the man’s mind that we were mad. She drew closer to me and cuddled into my coat; the foolish prettiness of her dress was no protection against the chill night air. We lay back, her head resting on my shoulder, gazing up at the star-scattered sky. The asphalt surface of the boulevard, polished by petrol and rubber-tires to the dull brightness of steel, glimmered in a long line before us reflecting the arc-lamps like a smooth waterway--like a slow canal in ancient Venice. Where we went I do not know; I did not care to notice. The creaking _fiacre_ had become a gondola and it was Fiesole who leant against me. Sometimes the _cocher_ drew up to light a cigarette and to glance suspiciously down upon us. Then I was brought back to reality. We circled the Bastille and prowled through the _Quartier Latin_, where the night was not so late. We crossed the river once more and crept along the _Quai des Tuileries_; then again we climbed “the mountain” and plunged into the grimy purlieus of _Les Halles_. Market-carts were already creaking, in from the country with swinging lamps. Wagons piled high with vegetables, loomed mountainous under eaves of houses. From the market came grumbling voices of men unloading, and the occasional squealing of a stallion. The _cocher_ wriggled on his box and confronted me fretfully. Before he could ask his question, “Sacré nom d’un chien!” I shouted fiercely, “Allez. Allez.” Meekly he jerked at the reins, sinking his head between his obedient shoulders.