"So we came on to Paris, and here we are at the Grand Hotel.
Farrell's notion of Paris, was of course, the Moulin Rouge, and
the kind of place on Montmartre where they sing some kind of
blasphemy while a squint-eyed waiter serves you cocktails on a
coffin.
"We were solemnly giving way to this libidinous humbug last night
when he leaned back and said to me, 'This is all very well,
Doctor; and I'm glad to have had the experience. But do you
know what I want at this moment?'
"'Say on,' said I, looking up to return the nod of an
acquaintance--a young American, Caffyn by name--who had risen
from a table not far from ours and was making his way out.
On a sudden impulse I called after him, 'Hi! Caffyn!'
"'Hallo!' Caffyn turned about and came strolling back. He is a
long lantern-jawed lad with a sardonic drawl of speech. He has
spent two years in the _ville lumiere_, having come to it
moth-like from somewhere afar in Texas. His ambition--no,
wait!--the ambition of his father, a 'cattle king,' is that he
should acquire the difficult art of painting in oils.
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