"And you, monsieur ?" she added, gayly.
"You also live here in the rue Mueller?
Yes?
No ?" She bent her head prettily, first to one side, then to the other, as she put her questions.
"I hope to live here, mademoiselle." "Ah! Then I wish you, too, the sunshine, monsieur! Good-day!" "Good-day, mademoiselle!" It was over--the little encounter; she moved into the dark hallway as light, as joyous, as inconsequent as a bird.

And Max passed out into the sharp, crisp air, sensible that the troubling memories of the Bal Tarbarin had in some strange manner been effaced--that inadvertently he had touched some source whence the waters of life bubbled in eternal, crystal freshness.
In the rue Ronsard he found a disengaged cab, and in ten minutes he was wheeling down into the heart of Paris.

It was nearing the hour of _dejeuner_, the boulevards were already filling, and the cold, crisp air seemed to vibrate to the bustle of hurrying human creatures seriously absorbed in the thought of food.
He smiled to himself at this humorously grave homage offered up so untiringly, so zealously to the appetite, as he made his way between the long line of tables at the restaurant where he had appointed to meet Blake.

Like all else that appertains to the Frenchman, its very frankness disarmed criticism or disgust.

He looked at the beaming faces, smiling up from the wide-spread napkins in perfect accord with life, and again, involuntarily, he smiled.