There's no woman like the Parisienne—for style, for go."
"Then it is an immoral city," said Little Chandler, with timid insistence—"I mean, compared with London or Dublin?"
"London!" said Ignatius Gallaher. "It's six of one and half-a-dozen of the other. You ask Hogan, my boy. I showed him a bit about London when he was over there. He'd open your eye. . . . I say. Tommy, don't make punch of that whisky: liquor up."
"No, really. . . ."
"O, come on, another one won't do you any harm. What is it? The same again, I suppose?"
"Well . . . all right."
"François, the same again. . . . Will you smoke, Tommy?"
Ignatius Gallaher produced his cigar-case. The two friends lit their cigars and puffed at them in silence until their drinks were served.
"I'll tell you my opinion," said Ignatius Gallaher, emerging after some time from the clouds of smoke in which he had taken refuge, "it's a rum world. Talk of immorality! I've heard of cases—what am I saying?—I've known them: cases of . . . immorality. . . ."
Ignatius Gallaher puffed thoughtfully at his cigar and then, in a calm historian's tone, he proceeded to sketch for his friend some pictures of the corruption which was rife abroad. He summarised the vices of many capitals and seemed in-
