legs, and watched the glassy waves roll from the prow of the boat and collapse crisply on the bank. After the dust of the pavements it was a renovating experience to breathe air filled with an earthy fragrance. Between Bas-Meudon and St. Cloud people still in summer dress were sitting on terrasses or in the gardens of tidy villas, and their voices came over the water above the murmur of kitchen sounds.
He landed with regret, in spite of the hard bench. The breeze had ceased as the boat slowed down. Dust and glare were ahead of him, and aggressive passengers behind.
After walking a mile he was welcomed by Felix, the waiter, and escorted through a crumbling house to the cafe above the river. Would Monsieur eat in the garden, as on the former occasion?
Monsieur would, at the little table under the big acacia. And Monsieur, all to himself, was pleased at being remembered by one casual soul in a universeful of casuals who didn't know him from Adam. Moreover, aloud, he had great thirst and would commence with a Turin sec.
He threw his portfolio on the grass and sailed his hat after it. The pebbles were uneven and his chair had to be adjusted to a lazy angle. The old landlord, in shirtsleeves, came out to greet his solitary guest and pass the time of day in language which was neatly economized. Only a Frenchman could say nothing so adequately. Only Frenchmen had the kind of men-
