It cannot be denied that Maxime made a good beginning in Heaven. He entered upon his new duties modestly, and spent a full half-hour of the early evening cleaning the long table in the main hall, dusting the surrounding stools of gold, upon which the chosen were to sit, and assisting his fellow angels in polishing the liqueur glasses. And it so happened that the first to enter that night was Major Amos E. Cogswell, of the United States Army, who had spent three weeks in Paris at the age of twenty-two, and distinguished himself by demanding, on his second arrival, the way to the Jardin Mabille. With the Major were his two nieces, and their attendant swains, John Selfridge Appleby and P. Hamilton Beck, the latter in narrow-brimmed straw hats, which resembled lids of Japanese tea-pots, and dogskin walking gloves, turned back at the wrists. The party entered with an air of bravado, and were heard to remark that this was IT,--whatever that might mean. It was Maxime's opportunity, and he improved it to the utmost, seating the newcomers around the head of the table, and demanding, "Ces messieurs désirent?" as if completely oblivious to the fact that they were anything but bred-in-the-bone boulevardiers. For there was need of precaution. It is an inexplicable thing about these English that one is charmed to be addressed in his own tongue, and the next is insulted. It pays to feel one's way. "What does he say?" said Major Cogswell, turning, helplessly, to P. Hamilton Beck, who had taken French II. at Columbia. "Wants us to name the drinks," responded that accomplished young gentleman. "Spik Ingliss?" put in l'L Majuscule, deploying the skirmishers of his vocabulary. "Tchure!" said Mr. Beck. "Ah!" replied Maxime, much gratified, "zen v'at eest? V'at veel de zaintlemans aff?" "Cream de mint," said the Major, promptly, and, his companions agreeing with alacrity, Mr. Beck again undertook the rôle of interpreter. "Sank cream de mint," he commanded, holding up his left hand, wide-spread, "et toute suite." And, in a surprisingly brief space of time, five infinitesimal glasses of the green liqueur stood before them. "Mais avec du glace," remonstrated Mr. Beck. "What's that; what's that?" inquired the Major anxiously, as the glasses were as suddenly removed by the abashed Maxime. "Oh, ice, that's all," replied the other. "These chaps don't know what's what. Leave 'em to me. One has to know how to handle 'em."