Martin-late chef to M. de Lesseps, and present proprietor of Martin's Restaurant-before she attempted to practice on her own account, so to speak, in the basement of a dingy brick house in West Twelfth Street. Signora Maria was a trusting soul in those days, and many a hungry poor devil has hung up his hat, coat and dinner there, and blessed his kind hostess as he quaffed her red ink.

We didn't say claret; we called out: "Where's my red ink bottle, Maria?" And Maria would put down the soup tureen she was going from table to table with, and fetch us a pint of her _ordinaire_. It was sour stuff certainly, which even Maria's radiant smile couldn't sweeten, but budding genius is careless of the morrow, and on Sunday evenings, especially, when Maria held her salon in the boarded back room, built out over the yard, vast quantities of it were gayly consumed, along with cigarettes, and coffee, and flaming _pousse-cafes_. In one sense, at least, our function was appropriate to the night.