They left the place.
“We are leaving just as it is becoming interesting,” Caracal sighed. “It’s over there we are to meet,” he added, pointing to the terrace of a café inundated with light.
They had not gone twenty steps before a voice called to them. It was Phil’s.
“Good evening, Monsieur le Duc! Good evening, M. Caracal!”
“Good evening, Phil!” answered Caracal. “Eh bien? How’s your American Club exposition? Interesting? Painting in the grand style? American painting, eh! eh! done by machinery, of course? I don’t say that for you, cher ami!”
“And how is your novel, ‘The House of Glass’?” retorted Phil, leaving painting for literature. “You were just now in search of human documents. Don’t say no; I saw you! You’re always thinking about it?”
“Always, my dear friend, always! But what makes you think so?”
“Because you were looking in the gutter,” said Phil.
Caracal made a grimace; but when they got to the café his self-love had a satisfaction which brought back his smiles. Before the terrace, encumbered with people, his valet was awaiting him, telegrams in hand. This valet was a part of his pride of life; a good fellow employed in a shop all day long, and free in the evening. Caracal dressed him up in a tail coat with gilt buttons, and a high hat, and had him bring his correspondence to the café every night, as if he were a man overwhelmed with invitations and billets-doux.
“Mademoiselle Helia will not come this evening,” the valet announced.