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“Poor old T. Jefferson! He wants me to be a Genius! I guess you have to have a little genius to be a Genius. Gosh, I’d like to see Stuyvy Wescott tonight. With him, it would be fun to have a drink!”

Without being quite conscious of it, Whit drifted from the sacred Left Bank to the bourgeois Right. Instead of returning to the Fanfaron and Isadora, he took refuge at the Caf de la Paix.

Just inside the door was a round-faced, spectacled American, perhaps fifty years old, looking wistfully about for company.

Whit could never have told by what long and involved process of thought he decided to pick up this Babbitt. He flopped down at the stranger’s table, and muttered, “Mind ‘f I sit here?”

“No, son, tickled to death! American?”

“You bet. ”

“Well, say, it certainly is good to talk to a white man again! Living here?”

“I’m studying art. ”

“Well, well, is that a fact!”

“Sometimes I wonder if it is! I’m pretty bad. ”

“Well, what the deuce! You’ll have a swell time here while you’re a kid, and I guess prob’ly you’ll learn a lot, and then you can go back to the States and start something. Easterner, ain’t you?”

“No; I was born in Zenith. ”

“Well, is that a fact! Folks live there?”

“Yes. My father is T. Jefferson Dibble of the Small Grain Products Company. ”

“Well, I’m a son-of-a-gun! Why, say, I know your dad. My name’s Titus—Buffalo Grain Forwarding Corp. —why, I’ve had a lot of dealings with your dad. Golly! Think of meeting somebody you know in thistown! I’m leaving tomorrow, and this is the first time I’ve had a shot at any home-grown conversation. Say, son, I’d be honored if you’d come out and bust the town loose with me this evening. ”

They went to the Exhibit of the Two Hemispheres, which Miles O’Sullivan had recommended as the dirtiest show in Europe. Whit was shocked. He tried to enjoy it. He told himself that otherwise he would prove himself a provincial, a lowbrow—in fact, an American. But he was increasingly uncomfortable at the antics of the ladies at the Exhibit. He peeped at Mr. Titus, and discovered that he was nervously twirling a glass and clearing his throat.

“I don’t care so much for this,” muttered Whit.

“Neither do I, son! Let’s beat it!”

They drove to the New Orleans bar and had a whisky-soda. They drove to the Kansas City bar and had a highball. They drove to the El Paso bar and had a rock and rye. They drove to the Virginia bar, and by now Mr. Titus was full of friendliness and manly joy.

Leaning against the bar, discoursing to a gentleman from South Dakota, Mr. Titus observed:

“I come from Buffalo. Name’s Titus. ”

“I come from Yankton. Smith is my name. ”

“Well, well, so you’re this fellow Smith I’ve heard so much about!”

“Ha, ha, ha, that’s right. ”

“Know Buffalo?”

“Just passing through on the train. ”

“Well, now, I want to make you a bet that Buffalo will increase in pop’lation not less than twenty-seven per cent this decade. ”

“Have ‘nother?”

“Have one on me. ”

“Well, let’s toss for it. ”

“That’s the idea. We’ll toss for it…. Hey, Billy, got any galloping dominoes?”

When they had gambled for the drink, Mr. Titus bellowed, “Say, you haven’t met my young friend Whinney Dibble. ”

“Glad meet you. ”

“He’s an artist!”

“Zatta fact!”

“Yessir, great artist. Sells pictures everywhere. London and Fort Worth and Cop’nagen and everywhere. Thousands and thousands dollars. His dad’s pal of mine. Wish I could see good old Dibble! Wish he were here tonight!”

And Mr. Titus wept, quietly, and Whit took him home.

Next morning, at a time when he should have been in the atelier of Monsieur Schoelkopf, Whit saw Mr. Titus off at the Gare St. -Lazare, and he was melancholy. There were so many pretty American girls taking the boat train; girls with whom he would have liked to play deck tennis.