“You come with me while I leave this stuff at the hotel and later on we’ll see if we can’t get these cheques cashed.”
Starwick consented eagerly. From that time on, Eugene played with him as a cat plays with a mouse. They got a taxi and were driven across the Seine to his little hotel, he left Starwick below while he went upstairs with his valise, promising to “be down in a minute, after I’ve washed up a bit,” and took a full and lesiurely three-quarters of an hour. When he got downstairs, Starwick’s restless manner had increased perceptibly: he was pacing up and down, smoking one cigarette after another. In the same leisurely and maddening manner they left the hotel. Starwick asked where they were going: Eugene replied cheerfully that they were going to dinner at a modest little restaurant across the Seine. By the time they had walked across the bridge, and through the enormous arches of the Louvre, Starwick was gnawing his lips with chagrin. In the restaurant Eugene ordered dinner and a bottle of wine; Starwick refused to eat, Eugene expressed regret and pursued his meal deliberately. By the time he had finished, and was cracking nuts, Starwick was almost frantic. He demanded impatiently to know where they were going, and the other answered chidingly:
“Now, Frank, what’s the hurry? You’ve got the whole night ahead of you: there’s no rush at all…. Besides, why not stay here a while? It’s a good place. Don’t you think so? I discovered it all by myself!”
Starwick looked about him, and said:
“Yes, the place is all right, I suppose, the food looks good—it really does, you know—but God!” he snarled bitterly, “how dull! how dull!”
“Dull?” Eugene said chidingly, and with an air of fine astonishment. “Frank, Frank, such language—and from you! Is this the poet and the artist, the man of feeling and of understanding, the lover of humanity? Is this grand, is this fine, is this swell?” he jeered. “Is this the lover of the French—the man who’s more at home here than he is at home? Why, Frank, this is unworthy of you: I thought that every breath you drew was saturated with the love of France. I thought that every pulse-beat of your artist’s soul beat in sympathy with the people of this noble country. I thought that you would love this place—find it simply swell,” he sneered, “and very grand and most amusing—and here you turn your nose up at the people and call them dull—as if they were a lot of damned Americans! Dull! How can they be dull, Frank? Don’t you see they’re French?… Now this boy here, for example,” he pointed to a bus-boy of
