“Here’s to our dear friend Faust; may he grow younger and younger every day.” We clinked glasses. Judith sighed when the performance was concluded. “That is one of the many advantages of being a man. If you do sell your soul to the devil you can see that you get proper payment. A woman is paid in promissory notes, which are dishonoured when they fall due.” I contested the proposition. The irony of this peculiarly painful revel lay in the air of gaiety it seemed necessary to maintain. A miserable business is civilisation! “Did you ever hear of a woman getting youth out of such a bargain?” she retorted with some vehemence. “As women systematically underpay cabmen,” said I, “so do they try to underpay the devil; and he is one too many for them.” “I am afraid,” said Pasquale, “that the old days of shrewd bargains are over. There is a glut in the soul-market and they only fetch the price of old bones.” “He is talking foolish things that I do not understand,” said Carlotta, putting her hand on my arm. “It is called sham cynicism, my dear,” said I, “and we all ought to be ashamed of ourselves.” “What do you like best to talk about?” Judith asked sweetly. “Myself. And so does everybody,” replied Carlotta. We laughed, and for a time talk ceased to be allusive. But later, over our coffee, while the band was playing loudly some new American march, and Carlotta and Pasquale were laughing together, Judith drew near me. “You did not answer my question about those two, Marcus.” My fingers trembled as I lit a fresh cigarette. “He is not a man to whom any woman’s destiny should be entrusted.” “And is she a woman on whom a man should stake his life’s happiness?” “God knows,” said I, setting my teeth. It was not an enjoyable dinner-party. I longed for the evening to be over, to have Carlotta safe back with me at home. I felt a curious dread of the Empire.