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A GAY NIGHT IN PARIS.
Mr.James B.Coulson was almost as much at home at the Grand Hotel, Paris, as he had been at the Savoy in London.

His headquarters were at the American Bar, where he approved of the cocktails, patronized the highballs, and continually met fellow-countrymen with whom he gossiped and visited various places of amusement.

His business during the daytime he kept to himself, but he certainly was possessed of a bagful of documents and drawings relating to sundry patents connected with the manufacture of woollen goods, the praises of which he was always ready to sing in a most enthusiastic fashion.
Mr.Coulson was not a man whose acquaintance it was difficult to make.
From five to seven every afternoon, scorning the attractions of the band outside and the generally festive air which pervaded the great tea rooms, he sat at the corner of the bar upon an article of furniture which resembled more than anything else an office stool, dividing his attention between desultory conversation with any other gentleman who might be indulging in a drink, and watching the billiards in which some of his compatriots were usually competing.

It was not, so far as one might judge, a strenuous life which Mr.Coulson was leading.