“Dear! dear!” he gasped. “I fear you are becoming depraved. It is dreadful!”
“Can’t help it,” confessed Frank, with a sigh. “It’s in the air. One catches it in Paris. If it were not for you, professor, I believe I would visit the Moulin Rouge to-night.”
“What is the Moulin Rouge? My, my! But it must be a terrible place!”
“It is the most famous dance hall in all Paris.”
“Dreadful, dreadful! See how you would go astray if it were not for my protecting care. Er—ah—what do they do at this terrible Moulin Rouge?”
“They dance, professor. The artists’ models go there, and they kick off your hat and chuck you under the chin and do other things. They are said to be very handsome, if one does not mind powder and paint. All the Americans go to the Moulin Rouge. They wouldn’t think of going to such a place at home, but in Paris it is different and all right.”
“Scandalous! I am ashamed of my countrymen. And how much does it cost to visit this dreadful place?”
“Not much, professor—a little something for beer, or wine, whichever you may choose to drink.”
“Ha! hum! Hum! ha! But you know I never drink beer, and I take wine only when I feel that the condition of my system makes me require a tonic.”
“Well, what do you say, professor—do we visit the Moulin Rouge?”