in, and we followed him down a path with beds of flowers on either side. The house was a pretty little stone cottage with ivy growing over the walls and a big studio window at the top. As we reached the door we heard a lot of talking and laughter, which stopped suddenly as the door opened, then went on again.
Four women and two men were in the room, but the only one I had any eyes for was a tall, dark girl in an orange-coloured chiffon gown that made her look like a nymph coming up out of some gorgeous lily. It was cut lower than you'd see anywhere except on the French stage, and she had a great rope of pearls, almost as deep as amber, and just matching her satin skin. I've seen some lovely women in my time, but this girl was superhuman when it came to body and face and the tone of her voice. Everybody was in evening dress, of course, and the first glimpse I got of the others made me think I was in a sure-enough swell crowd. The girls were pretty, and the men, one a Pole and the other a Frenchman, looked distinguished and high bred. The Frenchman wore the red ribbon and had a fine face with keen eyes and an iron-grey moustache and imperial.
"Léontine," says Jeff to the beauty, "let me present my old friend and comrade, Francis Clamart. I found him all alone at the Moulin Rouge and brought him with me, knowing that you would make him welcome."
I bowed, but Léontine came forward and gave me her hand.
"M. Clamart is doubly welcome," says she, "on my friend's account as well as upon his own."
