and pen a criticism so scathing as that which appeared in the Argus: for Streeter knew that Alfred Davison had written the criticism in the Argus, and Davison had posed as his friend; and had pretended as well, that he had a great admiration for Streeter's books.
As Streeter walked down the Boulevard des Italians, he saw, seated in front of a café, the man whom he hoped to meet: and furthermore, he was pleased to see that the man had a friend with him. The recognition of author and critic was mutual.
"Hallo, Streeter," cried Davison; "when did you come over?"
"I left London yesterday," answered Streeter.
"Then sit down and have something with us," said Davison, cordially.
"Streeter, this is my friend Harmon. He is an exile and a resident in
Paris, and, consequently, likes to meet his countrymen."
"In that case," said Streeter, "he is probably well acquainted with the customs of the place?"
"Rather!" returned Davison; "he has become so much of a Frenchman—he has been so contaminated, if I may put it that way—that I believe quite recently he was either principal or second in a duel. By the way, which was it, Harmon?"
"Merely a second," answered the other.
"I don't believe in duelling myself," continued Davison: "it seems to me an idiotic custom, and so futile."
"I don't agree with you," replied Streeter, curtly; "there is no reason why a duel should be futile, and there seem to be many reasons why a duel might be fought. There are many things, worse than crimes, which exist in all countries, and for which there is no remedy except calling a man out; misdemeanors, if I may so term them, that the law takes no cognisance of; treachery, for instance;—a person pretending to be a man's friend, and then the first chance he gets, stabbing him in the back."
Harmon nodded his approval of these sentiments, while Davison said jauntily:
"Oh, I don't know about that! It seems to me these things, which I suppose undoubtedly exist, should not be made important by taking much notice of them. What will you have to drink, Streeter?"
"Bring me a liqueur of brandy," said Streeter to the garçon who stood ready to take the order.
When the waiter returned with a small glass, into which he poured the brandy with the deftness of a Frenchman, filling it so that not a drop more could be added, and yet without allowing the glass to overflow, Streeter pulled out his purse.
"No, no!" cried Davison; "you are not going to pay for this—you are drinking with me."
"I pay for my own drinks," said Streeter, surlily.
"Not when I invite you to drink with me," protested the critic. "I pay for this brandy."
"Very well, take it, then!" said Streeter, picking up the little glass and dashing the contents in the face of Davison.
Davison took out his handkerchief.
"What the devil do you mean by that, Streeter?" he asked, as the color mounted to his brow.
Streeter took out his card and pencilled a word or two on the pasteboard.
"There," he said, "is my Paris address. If you do not know what I mean by that, ask your friend here; he will inform you."
And with that the novelist arose, bowed to the two, and departed.
When he returned to his hotel, after a stroll along the brilliantly- lighted Boulevards, he found waiting for him Mr. Harmon and a Frenchman.
"I had no idea you would come so soon," said Streeter, "otherwise I would not have kept you waiting."
"It does not matter," replied Harmon; "we have not waited long. Affairs of this kind require prompt action. An insult lasts but twenty-four hours, and my friend and principal has no desire to put you to the inconvenience of repeating your action of this evening. We are taking it for granted that you have a friend prepared to act for you; for your conduct appeared to be premeditated."
"You are quite right," answered Streeter; "I have two friends to whom I shall be pleased to introduce you. Come this way, if you will be so kind."
The preliminaries were speedily arranged, and the meeting was to take place next morning at daylight, with pistols.
Now that everything was settled, the prospect did not look quite so pleasant to Streeter as it had done when he left London. Davison had asked for no explanation; but that, of course, could be accounted for, because this critical sneak must be well aware of the reason for the insult. Still, Streeter had rather expected that he would perhaps have simulated ignorance, and on receiving enlightenment might have avoided a meeting to apologizing.
Anyhow, Streeter resolved to make a night of it. He left his friends to arrange for a carriage, and see to all that was necessary, while he donned his war-paint and departed for a gathering to which he had been invited, and where he was to meet many of his countrymen and countrywomen, in a fashionable part of Paris.
His hostess appeared to be overjoyed at seeing him.
"You are so late," she said, "that I was afraid something had occurred to keep you from coming altogether."
"Nothing could have prevented me from coming," said Streeter, gallantly, "where Mrs. Woodford is hostess!"
"Oh, that is very nice of you, Mr. Streeter!" answered the lady; "but I must not stand here talking with you, for I have promised to introduce you to Miss Neville, who wishes very much to meet you. She is a great admirer of yours, and has read all your books."
"There are not very many of them," said Streeter, with a laugh; "and such as they are, I hope Miss Neville thinks more of them than I do myself."
"Oh, we all know how modest authors are!" replied his hostess, leading him away to be introduced.
Miss Neville was young and pretty, and she was evidently pleased to meet the rising young author.
"I have long wanted to see you," she said, "to have a talk with you about your books."
"You are very kind," said Streeter, "but perhaps we might choose something more profitable to talk about?"
"I am not so sure of that. Doubtless you have been accustomed to hear only the nice things people say about you. That is the misfortune of many authors."
"It is a misfortune," answered Streeter.
"What a writer needs is somebody to tell him the truth."
"Ah!" said Miss Neville, "that is another thing I am not so sure about.
Mrs. Woodford has told you, I suppose, that I have read all your books?
Did she add that I detested them?"
Even Streeter was not able to conceal the fact that this remark caused him some surprise. He laughed uneasily, and said:
"On the contrary, Mrs. Woodford led me to believe that you had liked them."
The girl leaned back in her chair, and looked at him with half-closed eyes.
"Of course," she said, "Mrs. Woodford does not know. It is not likely that I would tell her I detested your books while I asked for an introduction to you. She took it for granted that I meant to say pleasant things to you, whereas I had made up my mind to do the exact reverse. No one would be more shocked than Mrs. Woodford—unless, perhaps, it is yourself—if she knew I was going to speak frankly with you."
"I am not shocked," said the young man, seriously; "I recognize that there are many things in my books that are blemishes."
"Of course you don't mean that," said the frank young woman; "because if you did you would not repeat the faults in book after book."
"A man can but do his best," said Streeter, getting annoyed in spite of himself, for no man takes kindly to the candid friend. "A man can but do his best, as Hubert said, whose grandsire drew a longbow at Hastings."
"Yes," returned