cushions too hard. They say that Victor Hugo, too, was a great child about such matters."
Casimir proved to be a burly man with big blue eyes, a red face, enormous moustaches, and the hands of a butcher. He greeted Vaudreuil with a heartiness that spread through the fussy parlor and included the young American guest, who was, however, spared the kiss that Léon had received and filially returned.
"B'en, c'est épatant!" he bellowed. "Quelle agréable réunion! Plus de travail. On chômera ensemble. Allons, less gosses, un verre de vin rouge. Ça donne du courage. Ça change les idées. Rosalie! Rosalie! On a faim."
Mme. Casimir fetched another glass and placed the bottle before her husband. The gesture, Grover observed, was ceremonious rather than affectionate. She peered through the window at the narrow strip of sky visible above the rooftops. Then in an explanatory tone she told them that the clouds had come back and the light was no longer good.
"Rubbish!" cried Casimir. "There's far too much nonsense talked about the light. A good painter can paint in the dark. When I'm tired of painting I believe in saying so, frankly. Good common energy is at fault far more often than the innocent sun. Is it true?" he asked.
"Perfectly," Vaudreuil acquiesced.
"Is it also true that the men who have the prettiest
