"Oh, dear, not" said Septimus, in alarm, and then, catching at the first explanation—"you see, our hours are different."
Sypher shook his head uncomprehendingly. The proprietor of the establishment, in dingy shirt-sleeves, set down the beer before him. Hégisippe, who had mixed his absinthe and was waiting politely until their new friend should be served, raised his glass.
"Just before you came, Monsieur," said he, "I was about to drink to the health—"
"Of L'Armée-Française," interrupted Septimus, reaching out his glass.
"But no," laughed Hégisippe. "It was to Monsieur, Madame, et Bébé."
"Bébé?" cried Sypher, and Septimus felt his clear, swift glance read his soul.
They clinked glasses. Hégisippe, defying the laws governing the absorption of alcohols, tossed off his absinthe in swashbuckler fashion, and rose.
"Now I leave you. You have many things to talk about. My respectful compliments to Madame. Messieurs, au revoir."
He shook hands, saluted and swaggered off, his chechia at the very back of his head, leaving half his shaven crown uncovered in front.
"A fine fellow, your friend, an intelligent fellow—" said Sypher, watching him.