"That reminds me," began Dulcima, "that now we are safely in Paris we might be allowed to ask papa about that——"
"There is a steamer which sails for New York to-morrow," I said calmly. "Any mention of that pig will ensure us staterooms in half an hour."
Considerably subdued, the girls meekly opened their Baedekers and patronized the view, while I lighted a cigar and mused.
It was my second cigar that morning. Certainly I was a changed man—but was it a change for the better? Within me I felt something stirring—I knew not what.
It was that long-buried germ of gayety, that latent uncultivated and embryotic germ which lies dormant in all Anglo-Saxons; and usually dies dormant or is drowned in solitary cocktails at a solemn club.
Certainly I was changing. Van Dieman was right. Doubtless any change could not be the worse for a man who has not sufficient intelligence to take care of his own pig.
"There is," said Dulcima, referring to her guidebook, "a café near here in the Bois de Boulogne, called the Café des Fleurs de Chine. I should so love to breakfast at a Chinese café."
"With chopsticks!" added Alida, soulfully clasping her gloved hands.
"Your Café Chinois is doubtless a rendezvous for Apaches," I said, "but we'll try it if you wish."
I am wondering, now, just what sort of a place that café is, set like a jewel among the green trees of the Bois. I know it is expensive, but not very expensive; I know, also, that the dainty young persons who sipped mint on the terrace appeared to disregard certain conventionalities which I had been led to believe were never disregarded in France.