Paillard's, the Cafe de Paris,--to the others also. It is an affair of
business, of course. One must learn how the Frenchman eats and what he
eats, that one may teach the art."

"But you are a Frenchman yourself, Louis," I remarked.

"But, monsieur," he answered, "I live in London. _Voila
tout._ One cannot write menus there for long, and succeed. One
needs inspiration."

"And you find it here?" I asked.

Louis shrugged his shoulders.

"Paris, monsieur," he answered, "is my home. It is always a pleasure
to me to see smiling faces, to see men and women who walk as though
every footstep were taking them nearer to happiness. Have you never
noticed, monsieur," he continued, "the difference? They do not plod
here as do your English people. There is a buoyancy in their
footsteps, a mirth in their laughter, an expectancy in the way they
look around, as though adventures were everywhere. I cannot understand
it, but one feels it directly one sets foot in Paris."

I nodded--a little bitterly, perhaps.

"It is temperament," I answered. "We may envy, but we cannot acquire
it."

"It seems strange to see monsieur alone here," Louis remarked. "In
London, it is always so different. Monsieur has so many