"No. We haven't got round to that yet. Is it lively?"
"And the food's the best in Paris. You'll come?"
Brent was looking at Susan. Palmer, not yet educated in the smaller—and important—refinements of politeness, did not wait for her reply or think that she should be consulted. "Certainly," said he. "On condition that you dine with us tomorrow night."
"Very well," agreed Brent. And he excused himself to take leave of his friends. "Just tell your chauffeur to go to the Abbaye—he'll know," he said as he bowed over Susan's hand. "I'll be waiting. I wish to be there ahead and make sure of a table."
As the door of the box closed upon him Freddie burst out with that enthusiasm we feel for one who is in a position to render us good service and is showing a disposition to do so. "I've known him for years," said he, "and he's the real thing. He used to spend a lot of time in a saloon I used to keep in Allen Street."
"Allen Street?" ejaculated Susan, shivering.
"I was twenty-two then. He used to want to study types, as he called it. And I gathered in types for him—though really my place was for the swell crooks and their ladies. How long ago that seems—and how far away!"
"Another life," said Susan.
"That's a fact. This is my second time on earth. Our second time.
I tell you it's fighting for a foothold that makes men and women
the wretches they are. Nowadays, I couldn't hurt a fly—could you?
But then you never were cruel. That's why you stayed down so long."
Susan smiled into the darkness of the auditorium—the curtain was up, and they were talking in undertones. She said, as she smiled: