all about.  Monsieur’s comfort must be preserved:  that seemed to be the issue in which, at once, all were united.  “M’sieur will pardon the boy,” apologised Charles in deepest humility, taking much for granted.  “It will be very warm to-day.  Your serviette, M’sieur—­it is damp.  Pardon!” He flew away and back with another napkin.  “Of course, M’sieur, the Chatham is not the Waldorf,” he announced deprecatingly. “Parbleu,” beating himself on the forehead, “I forgot!  M’sieur does not like the Waldorf. Eh, bien, Paris is not New York, no.”  Having sufficiently humbled Paris, he withdrew into the background, rubbing his hands as if he were cleansing them of something unsightly.  Brock spread one of the buttered biscuits with honey and inwardly admitted that Paris was not New York.

He was a good-looking chap of thirty or thereabouts, an American to the core,—­bright-eyed, keen-witted, smooth-faced, virile.  From boyhood’s earliest days he had spent a portion of his summers in Europe.  Two or three years of his life had been employed in the Beaux Arts,—­fruitful years, for Brock had not wasted his opportunities.  He had gone in for architecture and building.  To-day he stood high among the younger men in New York,—­prosperous, successful, and a menace to the old cry that a son of the rich cannot thrive in his father’s domain.  Nowadays he came to the Old World for his breathing spells.  He was able to combine dawdling and development without sacrificing one for the other, wherein lies the proof that his vacations were not akin to those taken by most of us.

The fortnight in Paris was to be followed by a week in St. Petersburg and a brief tour of Sweden and Norway.  His stay in the gay city was drawing to a close.  That very morning he expected to book for St. Petersburg, leaving in three days.

Suddenly his glance fell upon a name in the society column before him, “Roxbury Medcroft.”  His face lighted up with genuine pleasure.  An old friend, a boon companion in bygone days, was this same Medcroft,—­a broad-minded, broad-gauged young Englishman who had profited by a stay of some years in the States.  They had studied together in Paris and they had toiled together in New York.  This is what he read:  “Mr. and Mrs. Roxbury Medcroft, of London, are stopping at the Ritz, en route to Vienna.  Mr. Medcroft will attend the meeting of Austrian Architects, to be held there next week, and, with his wife, will afterwards spend a fortnight in the German Alps, the guests of the Alfred Rodneys, of Seattle.”

“Dear old Rox, I must look him up at once,” mused Brock.  “The Rodneys of Seattle?  Never heard of ’em.”  He looked at his watch, signed his check, deposited the usual franc, acknowledged Charles’s well-practised smile of thanks, and pushed back his chair, his gaze travelling involuntarily toward the portals of the American bar across the court, just beyond the concierge’s quarters.  Simultaneously a tall figure emerged from the bar, casting eager glances in all directions,—­a tall figure in a checked suit, bowler hat, white reindeer gloves, high collar, and grey spats.  Brock came to his feet quickly.  The monocle dropped from the other’s eye, and his long legs carried him eagerly toward the American.