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from his cigarette and patting Ross lightly on the shoulder with a bediamonded hand which hung limp from a yard or more of bony arm, “I see I mus’ be frank with you. Firs’, because we are rivals; second, because you take these matters so serious. I—I am Frenchman. I love the women”—he threw back his curls, bared his yellow teeth, and blew an unsavory kiss toward the kitchen. “It is, I suppose, a trait of my nation. All Frenchmen love the women—pretty women. Now, look: Here I am!” He spread out his arms. “Cold outside! I detes’ the col-l-l’! Snow! I abominate the mees-ser-rhable snow! Two men! This”—pointing to me—“an’ this!” Pointing to Ross. “I am distracted! For two whole days I stan’ at the window an’ tear my ’air! I am nervous, upset, pr-r-ro-foun’ly distress inside my ’ead! An’ suddenly—be’old! A woman, a nice, pretty, charming, innocen’ young woman! I, naturally, rejoice. I become myself again—gay, light-’earted, ’appy. I address myself to mademoiselle; it passes the time. That, m’sieu’, is wot the women are for—pass the time! Entertainment—like the music, like the wine!

“They appeal to the mood, the caprice, the temperamen’. To play with thees woman, follow her through her humour, pursue her—ah! that is the mos’ delightful way to sen’ the hours about their business.”

Ross banged the table. “Shut up, you miserable yeller pup!” he roared. “I object to your pursuin’