very slightly. The world wags well with you? You look prosperous."
I cried out some incoherent protest. Afterwards I said, "You know what I want to hear. What does this mean?"
He laughed nervously. "Oh, the meaning's clear enough. It speaks for itself."
"I don't understand," said I.
"I'm pianist to the Brasserie des Quatre Vents. You saw me in the discharge of my duties."
"I don't understand," I repeated helplessly.
"And yet the inference is plain. What could have brought a man to such a pass save drink or evil courses?"
"Oh, don't trifle," I implored him.
"I'm not trifling. That's the worst of it. For I don't drink, and I'm not conscious of having pursued any especially evil courses."
"Well?" I questioned. "Well?"
"The fact of the matter simply is that I'm what they call a failure. I never came off."
"I don't understand," I repeated for a third time.
"No more do I, if you come to that. It's the will of Heaven, I suppose. Anyhow, it can't puzzle you more than it puzzles me. It seems contrary to the whole logic of circumstances, but it's the fact."
Thus far he had spoken listlessly, with a sort of bitter levity, an affectation of indifference; but after a little silence his mood appeared to change. His hand upon my arm tightened its grasp, and he began to speak rapidly, feelingly.
"Do you realise that it is nearly fifteen years since we have seen each other? The history of those fifteen years, so far as I am concerned, has been the history of a single uninterrupted déveine—one continuous run of ill-luck, against every probabilityof