MONSIEUR DE VALBONNETTE
One of Paul's peculiarities, which I think I have indicated before, was a remissness in paying out the small coin of friendship. His visits were apparently governed by caprice, and as unaccountable as the fall of the red or black in roulette. Not to have seen him for the last month gave no warrant to expect him within the next. On the other hand, to have been honored with a visit last night was some reason for expecting a return on the morrow.
I had not seen him for two months when I ran across him in the foyer of the Elite Theatre. It was the first night of Durnham's Miss Muffet. (You will remember Brasier as "the Spider.") Things apparently were inextricably tangled up for all the smart sinners, and I was rather dreading the fourth act. I was surprised to see him there, though I knew he had got into journalism. In the twilight of our under-world one may know a man a long time before one knows what he is doing—perhaps only discover it then because he is found nibbling at the same loaf as oneself. I had never seen Ingram before in evening dress; he looked very gaunt and foreign and distinguished. One mentally added a red ribbon and the enamelled cross of the Légion d'Honneur.
"Hullo, Ingram! you a first-nighter?"
"I'm doing it for the Parthenon!"
"Oh! of course." Rumor had not lied, then. I had a horrible feeling that my comment sounded "knowing," and a suspicion that Ingram flushed at my tone. I made haste to change it.
"Lucky devil! You've got nearly a week to do Brasier's genius justice in. What d'you think of it all?"
"Pah! London bouquet. Sin and sachet powder."
"You won't say that in the Parthenon?"
"No." I noticed then how tired he looked. The bell began to ring.