Monsieur François piloted the little party himself to the corner table which he had reserved for them. He had taken a fancy to this tall young Englishman, whose French, save for a trifle of accent, was as perfect as his own, who spent money with both hands, who was gay as the gayest, and yet who had the air of being little more than a looker-on at the merriment which he did so much to promote. "We are full to-night, monsieur," he said. "There will be a great crowd. Yet you see your table waits. Mademoiselle Bolero herself begged for it, but I said always--'No! no! no! It is for monsieur and his friends.'" "You are a prince," Macheson exclaimed as they filed into their places. "To-night we are going to prove to ourselves that we are indeed in Paris! Sommelier, the same wine--in magnums to-night! My friend is sleepy. We must wake him up. Ah, mademoiselle!" he waved his hand to the little short-skirted danseuse. "You must take a glass of wine with us, and afterwards--the Maxixe! Waiter, a glass, a chair for mademoiselle!" Mademoiselle came pirouetting up to them. Monsieur was very kind. She would take a glass of champagne, and afterwards--yes! the Maxixe, if they desired it! They sat with their backs to the wall, facing the little space along which the visitors to the café came and went, and where, under difficulties, one danced. The leader of the orchestra came bowing and smiling towards them, playing an American waltz, and Macheson, with a laugh, sprang up and guided mademoiselle through the throng of people and hurrying waiters. "Monsieur comes often to Paris?" she asked, as they whirled around. "For the first time in my life," Macheson answered. "We are here on a quest! We want to understand what pleasure means!" Mademoiselle sighed ever so slightly under the powder with which her pretty face was disfigured. "One is gay here always," she said somewhat doubtfully, "but it is the people who come seldom who enjoy themselves the most." Macheson laughed as he led her back to their table. "You are right," he declared. "Pleasure is a subtle thing. It does not do to analyse." Macheson filled her glass. "Sit down," he said, "and tell us about the people. It is early yet, I suppose?" She nodded. "Yes," she answered. "There are many who come every night who have not yet arrived."