As Streeter walked down the Boulevard des Italians, he saw, seated in front of a café, the man whom he hoped to meet: and furthermore, he was pleased to see that the man had a friend with him. The recognition of author and critic was mutual.
“Hallo, Streeter,” cried Davison; “when did you come over?”
“I left London yesterday,” answered Streeter.
“Then sit down and have something with us,” said Davison, cordially. “Streeter, this is my friend Harmon. He is an exile and a resident in Paris, and, consequently, likes to meet his countrymen.”
“In that case,” said Streeter, “he is probably well acquainted with the customs of the place?”
“Rather!” returned Davison; “he has become so much of a Frenchman—he has been so contaminated, if I may put it that way—that I believe quite recently he was either principal or second in a duel. By the way, which was it, Harmon?”
“Merely a second,” answered the other.
“I don’t believe in duelling myself,” continued Davison: “it seems to me an idiotic custom, and so futile.”
“I don’t agree with you,” replied Streeter, curtly; “there is no reason why a duel should be futile, and there seem to be many reasons why a duel might be fought. There are many things, worse than crimes, which exist in all countries, and for which there is no remedy except calling a man out; misdemeanors, if I may so term them, that the law takes no cognisance of; treachery, for instance;—a person pretending to be a man’s friend, and then the first chance he gets, stabbing him in the back.”
Harmon nodded his approval of these sentiments, while Davison said jauntily: