CHAPTER XXXI
THE CAFÉ DES BULGARS
Their adieux to Fifi and Nini were elaborate and complicated by bursts of laughter. The Tziganes recommended Captain Sengoun to go home and seek further adventures on his pillow; and had it not been for the gay babble of the fountain and the persistent perfume of flowers, he might have followed their advice.
It was after the two young men had left the Jardin Russe that Captain Sengoun positively but affectionately refused to relinquish possession of Neeland’s arm.
“Dear friend,” he explained, “I am just waking up and I do not wish to go to bed for days and days.”
“But I do,” returned Neeland, laughing. “Where do you want to go now, Prince Erlik?”
The champagne was singing loudly in the Cossack’s handsome head; the distant brilliancy beyond the Place de la Concorde riveted his roving eyes.
“Over there,” he said joyously. “Listen, old fellow, I’ll teach you the skating step as we cross the Place! Then, in the first Bal, you shall try it on the fairest form since Helen fell and Troy burned—or Troy fell and Helen burned—it’s all the same, old fellow—what you call fifty-fifty, eh?”