they find it, and whose favourite part is that of the spectator; yet even I was listening with ill-suppressed disgust, when I was aware of a violent plucking at my sleeve.
“Is he saying he kicked her downstairs?” asked Pinkerton, white as St. Stephen.
“Yes,” said I: “his discarded mistress; and then he pelted her with stones. I suppose that's what gave him the idea for his picture. He has just been alleging the pathetic excuse that she was old enough to be his mother.”
Something like a sob broke from Pinkerton. “Tell him,” he gasped—“I can't speak this language, though I understand a little; I never had any proper education—tell him I'm going to punch his head.”
“For God's sake, do nothing of the sort!” I cried. “They don't understand that sort of thing here;” and I tried to bundle him out.
“Tell him first what we think of him,” he objected. “Let me tell him what he looks in the eyes of a pure-minded American”
“Leave that to me,” said I, thrusting Pinkerton clear through the door.
“Qu'est-ce qu'il a?”[1] inquired the student.
“Monsieur se sent mal au œur d'avoir trop regarde votre croute,”[2] said I, and made my escape, scarce with dignity, at Pinkerton's heels.
“What did you say to him?” he asked.
“The only thing that he could feel,” was my reply.
After this scene, the freedom with which I had ejected my new acquaintance, and the precipitation with which I had followed him, the least I could do was to propose luncheon. I have forgot the name of
