The young man became grave and excessively ceremonious.  He bowed low over Sophia’s hand and kissed it.  Her impulse was to laugh, but the gravity of the young man’s deference stopped her.  She glanced at Gerald, blushing, as if to say:  “This comedy is not my fault.”  Gerald said something, the young man turned to him and his face resumed its welcoming smile.

“This is Monsieur Chirac,” Gerald at length completed the introduction, “a friend of mine when I lived in Paris.”

He was proud to have met by accident an acquaintance in a restaurant.  It demonstrated that he was a Parisian, and improved his standing with the whiskered Englishman and the vermilion cloak.

“It is the first time you come Paris, madame?” Chirac addressed himself to Sophia, in limping, timorous English.

“Yes,” she giggled.  He bowed again.

Chirac, with his best compliments, felicitated Gerald upon his marriage.

“Don’t mention it!” said the humorous Gerald in English, amused at his own wit; and then:  “What about this execution?”

“Ah!” replied Chirac, breathing out a long breath, and smiling at Sophia.  “Rivain!  Rivain!” He made a large, important gesture with his hand.

It was at once to be seen that Gerald had touched the topic which secretly ravaged the supper-world as a subterranean fire ravages a mine.

“I go!” said Chirac, with pride, glancing at Sophia, who smiled self-consciously.

Chirac entered upon a conversation with Gerald in French.  Sophia comprehended that Gerald was surprised and impressed by what Chirac told him and that Chirac in turn was surprised.  Then Gerald laboriously found his pocket-book, and after some fumbling with it handed it to Chirac so that the latter might write in it.

“Madame!” murmured Chirac, resuming his ceremonious stiffness in order to take leave.  “Alors, c’est entendu, mon cher ami!” he said to Gerald, who nodded phlegmatically.  And Chirac went away to the next table but one, where were the three lorettes and the two middle-aged men.  He was received there with enthusiasm.

Sophia began to be teased by a little fear that Gerald was not quite his usual self.  She did not think of him as tipsy.  The idea of his being tipsy would have shocked her.  She did not think clearly at all.  She was lost and dazed in the labyrinth of new and vivid impressions into which Gerald had led her.  But her prudence was awake.

“I think I’m tired,” she said in a low voice.

“You don’t want to go, do you?” he asked, hurt.

“Well—­”

“Oh, wait a bit!”

The owner of the vermilion cloak spoke again to Gerald, who showed that he was flattered.  While talking to her he ordered a brandy-and-soda.  And then he could not refrain from displaying to her his familiarity with Parisian life, and he related how he had met Hortense Schneider behind a pair of white horses.  The vermilion cloak grew even more sociable at the mention of this resounding name, and chattered with the most agreeable vivacity.  Her friend stared inimically.