Inside the Café Harcourt, at a table, in an angle somewhat apart from the scintillating din, sat Quilliam O’Flaherty Macloughlin Myre and the exquisite Aubrey. The Honourable Rupert Greppel also was there, hidalgic, aloof, aristocratic; and Lord Monty Askew, leaning his chin on the jade handle of his cane, and gloved with sleeved gloves, like a woman’s--he, too, being aristocrat, could not live without the attention of the crowd whom he despised in speech and verse. And as Rupert Greppel uttered his splendid contempt of humanity, Askew would nod, giving Greppel the polite attention of his eyes--his thoughts the while on his own pose and poesies. Aubrey too was gazing at himself in a mirror. Greppel was airing his hidalgeries, regretting that all hope of the hunting of peasants with dogs was lost in these vulgar days of democracy. Quogge Myre was about to yawn openly, when his roving gaze fell upon the handsome face of Bartholomew Doome at a table near by, where, on either side of him, there sat two of the most pronounced beauties of the Latin Quarter. Myre caught the eyes of Horace Malahide, who with Babette at his side also sat at Doome’s table; and he nodded and smiled through his colourless untidy moustache at the young fellow. The two beautiful young women were turned to Doome, gazing upon his handsome face with hungry eyes of admiration. Gaston Latour, sitting opposite, was leaning forward, stroking the gloved hand of one of them where it lay upon the table, Doome listening to him with an amused smile. “Ah, Liane,” said Latour, “the English are good fellows, but they cannot love.... Conjugate their verb: I lof, thou loffest, he lofs, ve lof, you lof, zey lof--it is like coughing into a passionate woman’s ecstatic ear--it is born of their fog--as well kiss a haddock!” The two young women smiled away the sally pityingly, keeping their rapt eyes on the Byronic Doome. Gaston grinned: “Mon Dieu!” said he, “he has not even an Englishman’s excuse for existence--he is not even rich.” The two women had arisen, scowling at each other’s handsome faces, their beautiful lips set angrily, and began to quarrel about the seated Doome, who thrust his hands into his pockets resignedly, and sat grimly silent through it all. Words were like to come to blows between the two women, for the hot-blooded Liane, to reach the other, moved out to battle--the other retired slowly up the café, her reckless rallies as she withdrew bringing all eyes to the disturbance. Women stood up on chairs and tables, to see the details; and the students thundered applause, and threw in comic suggestions. “The last word is with Liane,” shouted a great burly fellow with a big laughing voice, an artist; and added: “Tiens! what a Juno, hein!” Liane turned her pretty back upon them, and the wit ran down. She came back to her seat beside Doome; sat down; and laid a hand upon his sleeve: “It was thy fault,” she said. Doome looked at her grimly: