"I am doing our national character good," he declared to Julien, as he set down his glass empty. "As to my own constitution—but let that pass. We will drown this stuff in honest beer, later on. How are you getting on with the fish?"
"It is excellent—really excellent," Julien proclaimed. "Do you mean to say seriously that you are going to pay only two francs each for this repast?"
"Not a centime more," Kendricks assured him. "Do you know why I brought you here?"
"Part of my education, I suppose," Julien replied resignedly.
"Quite true. Further than that, I am here on business for my paper. I am here to study the effect of the German invasion of Paris. This place is being spoken of as being the haunt of Germans. It still seems to me that I find plenty of the real French people."
"Do we pursue your investigations elsewhere during the course of the evening?" Julien inquired.
"The whole of our evening," Kendricks told him, "is devoted to that purpose, and incidentally," he added, "to your education. We are going for red-blooded pleasure to-night, for the real thing,—for the hearty laughs, for the wholesome appetites; no caviare sandwiches, over-dry champagne, rouged lips and Rue de la Paix hats for us. If we make love, we make love honestly. Mademoiselle may permit a clasp of her hand—no more."
"So far," Julien remarked, "mademoiselle—"
"That is for later," Kendricks interrupted briskly. "We shall go to a singing-hall—a German singing-hall. The mademoiselles whom we meet will probably have their own sweethearts. Somehow, to-night I fancy that we shall be lookers-on. What does it matter? We shall at least see life. We shall catch the shadows of other people's happinesses. It is, I believe, the sincerest form. The chicken, dear Julien,—what of the chicken?"
Julien hesitated.