“No, I thank you. I have already had my after dinner coffee. But if I might take the liberty of ordering something else——?” “By all means,” said Martin hospitably. “What will you have? Cognac? Liqueur? Whisky and soda?” Fortinbras held up his hand—it was the hand of a comfortable, drowsy prelate—and smiled. “I have not touched alcohol for many years. I find it blunts the delicacy of perception which is essential to a Marchand de Bonheur in the exercise of his calling. Auguste will give me a _syrop de framboises à l’eau_.” “_Bien, m’sieu_,” said Auguste. “On the other hand, I shall smoke with pleasure one of your excellent English cigarettes. Thanks. Allow me.” With something of the grand manner he held a lighted match to Corinna’s cigarette and to Martin’s. Then he blew it out and lit another for his own. “A superstition,” said he, by way of apology. “It arises out of the Russian funeral ritual in which the three altar candles are lit by the same taper. To apply the same method of illumination to three worldly things like cigars or cigarettes is regarded as an act of impiety and hence as unlucky. For two people to dip their hands together in the same basin, without making the sign of the cross in the water, is unlucky on account of the central incident of the Last Supper, and to spill the salt as you are absent-mindedly doing, Corinna, is a violation of the sacred symbol of sworn friendship.” “That’s all very interesting,” said Corinna calmly. “But what are Martin Overshaw and I to do to be happy?” Fortinbras looked from one to the other with benevolent shrewdness and inhaled a long puff of smoke. “What about our young medical student friend, Camille Fargot?” Corinna flushed red—as only pale blondes can flush. “What do you know about Camille?” she demanded. “Everything—and nothing. Come, come. It’s my business to keep a paternal eye on you children. Where is he?” “Who the deuce is Camille?” thought Martin. “He’s at Bordeaux, safe in the arms of his ridiculous mother,” replied Corinna tartly. “Good, good,” said Fortinbras. “And you, Mr. Overshaw, where is the lady on whom you have set your affections?” Martin laughed frankly. “Heaven knows. There isn’t one. The _Princesse lointaine_, perhaps, whom I’ve never seen.” Fortinbras again looked from one to the other. “This complicates matters,” said he. “On the other hand, perhaps, it simplifies them. There being nothing common, however, to your respective roads to happiness, each case must be dealt with separately. _Place aux dames_—Corinna will first expose to me the sources of her divine discontent. Proceed, Corinna.” She drummed with her fingers on the table, and little wrinkles lined her young forehead. Martin pushed back his chair. “Hadn’t I better go for a walk until it is my turn to be interviewed?”