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4 my friend Gustave de Berensac rushed in. His bright brown eyes were sparkling, his mustache seemed twisted up more gayly and triumphantly than ever, and his manner was redolent of high spirits. Yet it was a dull, somber, misty morning, for all that the month was July and another day or two would bring August. But Gustave was a merry fellow, though always (as I had occasion to remember later on) within the limits of becoming mirth—as to which, to be sure, there may be much difference of opinion.

“Shame!” he cried, pointing at me. “You are a man of leisure, nothing keeps you here; yet you stay in this bouillon of an atmosphere, with France only twenty miles away over the sea!”

“They have fogs in France too,” said I. “But whither tends your impassioned speech, my good friend? Have you got leave?”

Gustave was at this time an extra secretary at the French Embassy in London.

“Leave? Yes, I have leave—and, what is more, I have a charming invitation.”

“My congratulations,” said I.

“An invitation which includes a friend,” he continued, sitting down. “Ah, you smile! You mean that is less interesting?”

“A man may smile and smile, and not be a villain,” said I. “I meant nothing of the sort. I smiled at your exhilaration—nothing more, on the word of a moral Englishman.”

Gustave grimaced; then he waved his cigarette in the air, exclaiming: