Monsieur Carvin bowed.

"For any friend of Louis," he said, "one would do much. But indeed,
monsieur, people seem to find my little restaurant interesting, and it
is, alas, so very small."

We entered the room almost as he spoke. It was larger than I had
expected to find it, and the style of its decorations and general
appearance were absolutely different from the cafe below. The coloring
was a little sombre for a French restaurant, and the illuminations a
little less vivid. The walls, however, were panelled with what seemed
to be a sort of dark mahogany, and on the ceiling was painted a great
allegorical picture, the nature of which I could not at first
surmise. The guests, of whom the room was almost full, were all
well-dressed and apparently of the smart world. The tourist element
was lacking. There were a few men there in morning clothes, but these
were dressed with the rigid exactness of the Frenchman, who often,
from choice, affects this style of toilet. From the first I felt that
the place possessed an atmosphere. I could not describe it, but,
quite apart from Louis' few words concerning it, I knew that it had a
clientele of its own, and that within its four walls were gathered
together people who were in some way different from the butterfly
crowd who haunt the night cafes in Paris. Monsieur Carvin himself led
us to a small table against the wall, and not far inside the room. The
_vestiaire_ relieved us of our coats and hats. A suave _maitre
d'hotel_ bent over us with suggestions for supper, and an attendant
_sommelier_ waited by his side. Monsieur Carvin waved them away.

"The gentlemen have probably supped," he remarked. "A bottle of the